eighteenth  clntury 
Essays 


r^/l' 


^■. 


^J.' 


ENGLISH    CLASSICS 


IVit/i  slower  peK  men  used  to  tvriie, 
OJ  old,  -when  "letters"  were  "polite;" 
In  Anna's,  or  in  George's  days, 
'I'hey  could  aj^ord  to  turn  a  phrase. 
Or  trim  a  straggling  theme  aright. 

They  knew  not  steam  ;  electric  light 
Not  yet  had  dazed  their  calmer  sight ; — 
They  meted  out  both  bLxvie  and  pi  aise 
With  slower  pen. 

More  siviftly  tiow  the  hours  take  Jlight ! 

What's  read  at  morn  is  dead  at  night ; 
Scant  space  have  lue  for  A  rt's  delays, 
Whose  breathless  thought  so  briefly  sr.^ys. 

We  may  not  work — ah  !  ivould  we  iiii-^ht. 
With  slower  pen ! 


THE    TORY    FOXHUNTER 


EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 


ESSAYS 


SELECTED   AND   ANNOTATED   BY 

AUSTIN   DOBSON 


Collect  a  re-i'irescu  nt 


NEW   YORK 

D.    APPLETON   AND   COMPANY 

I  Sag 


^^  nURAHY 

rfC  UNT/ERSITY  OF  CALIFORNC 

/-3  ^^  3AISTA  DAIlBAiiA 


Mrs.  Riclunond  1  hacker  ay  Ritchie. 

MADAM, 

T  N  putting  the  finishing  Strokes  to  that  famous 
Novel  of  the  Eighteenth  Century,  which  is  one 
of  the  chief  Glories  of  the  Nineteenth,  the  Author  of 
Esmond  did  not  neglect  one  needful  and  indeed  in- 
dispensable Detail,  the  Dedication  to  an  Illustrious 
Personage.  So  high  a  Precedent  may  not  improperly 
be  followed  in  Cases  more  obscure.  Were  Mr. 
Thackeray  still  among  us,  the  Homage  of  this  Selec- 
tion of  Eighteenth -Century  Essays  (had  he  been 
pleased  to  accept  it)  would  have  belonged  of  right 
to  the  literary  Descendant  of  Addison  and  Fielding, 
of  Goldsmith  and  Steele :  and  it  would  have  been  my 
Privilege  to  have  found  in  it  the  Pretext  for  a  Tribute 

(however 


vi  DEDICATION. 

(however  trifling)  to  a  great  Writer  whom  I  love  and 
honour.     But  alas ! 

Saeva  Caput  Proserpinay«^/V; 

and  Vate,  that  cannot  kill  a  Noble  Work,  is  absolute 
over  him  who  gives  it  Birth.  I  am  reminded,  not 
the  less,  that  there  are  still  written,  for  our  unthinking 
Moderns,  Pages  in  which  it  is  not  difficult  to  trace 
some  softer  Relation  to  that  pure  and  unaff'ected 
Pathos,  that  keen  yet  kindly  Satire.  I  presume  there- 
fore to  offer  this  little  Volume  to  Mr.  Thackeray's 
D.uighter. 

I  mil, 

MADAM, 

Your  obedient  Servant, 

Austin  Dobsoii. 


CONTEXTS. 


No.iy  in  1 1  iriuihu    .... 

,  14.  Sir  Roger  (/<•  Coverlfy's  -Incestors 

,15.   Sir  Roger  de  Coverlex  Hare-Hunting 

,  16.    Th:  Citizen's  Jon  run  I 

,  17.    The  Fine  LuiIy's  Jonrnal     . 

,    18.   Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  at  the  Flay 

,    19.  A  Da\s  Ramble  in  London 

,   20.   Diet:  Esteoui  t  :    In  Meinoriain 

,    21.   Death  oj  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley    . 

,    22.    The  Tory  Foxhunter  . 

,    2;.   A  Modern  Convenation 

,    24.  Do.  do.  (eontinued) 

,    2).   The  Squire  in  Orders 

,,    26.    Conntry  Congregations 

.,    27.  Dick  Minim  the  Critic 

,.  28.  Do.  do.        (continued) 

,,   29.   Art-Connoisseurs         ,  ,  , 


CONTENTS. 


Iktroduction      ......  ix 

'o.   I.  Mr.  Biclwtstiiff  Visits  ti  Friend    .         .  i 

2.  Do.  do.  (continued)    lo 

3.  The  Trumpet  Club     . 

4.  The  Political  Upholsterer 

5 .  Tom  Folio 

6.  Ked  Softly  the  Poet    . 

7.  Recollect ioiis  of  Childhood 

8.  Adventures  of  a  Shilling 

9.  Frozen  Voices 

10.  Stage  Lions 

11.  Meditations  in  IVestiniiister  Jl>he\ 

12.  The  Exercise  of  the  Fan 


17 

24 

Ji 

S7 

44 

SI 

S9 

AlAiey 

75 

79 

-Vo. 

COXTEXTS. 


Xo.  ^o.    The  Mail  in  Black     . 
..    51.   Bi'aii  Tihhs 
,,    32.   Beau  Tibhs  at  Home 
.,    53.   Beau  Tibhs  at  Vauxhall 
,,    34.   A  Coinifrv  DoiL>ii<^rr  . 

Illustrative  Notes     . 


PAGE 

214 


22.1 

235 
241 

2SI 


INTRODUCTION. 

""  I  ""HE  Eighteenth- Century  Essayists,  even  in  the 
-*-  compact  editions  of  Chalmers  and  Berguer, 
occupy  some  forty  or  fifty  volumes.  These,  again, 
are  only  a  part  of  those  whose  names  are  given  in  the 
laborious  list  compiled  by  Dr.  Nathan  Drake.  To 
compress  any  representative  selection  from  such  a 
mass  of  literature  within  the  limits  of  the*'  Parch- 
'  ment  Library '  is  clearly  out  of  the  question  ;  and 
it  must  therefore  be  distinctly  explained  that  we  are 
here  concerned  only  with  a  particular  division  of  the 
subject.  That  grave  and  portentous  production — 
the  essay  '  critical,'  '  metaphysical,'  '  moral,'  which 
so  impressed  our  forefathers,  has  become  to  us  a 
little  lengthy — a  little  wearisome.  Much  of  it  is  old- 
fashioned  ;  something  is  obsolete.  With  the  march 
of  time  philosophy  has  taken  fresh  directions  ;  a  new 
apparatus  criticus  has  displaced  the  old  ;  and  if  we  are 
didactic  now,  we  are  didactic  with  a  difference.      But 

the 


xii  IXTRODVCTION. 

the  sketches  of  social  h't'e  and  character  still  retain 
their  freshness,  because  the  types  are  eternal.  Lc  jour 
I'a  passer;  via  is  les  badaiids  ne  passeronl  pas!  As  the 
frivolous  chatter  of  the  Svracusan  ladiej  in  Theocritus 
is  still  to  be  heard  nt  every  Hyde-Park  review,  as  the 
Crispinus  and  SufFenus  of  Horace  and  Catullus  stjl 
haunt  our  clubs  and  streets,  as  the  personages  of 
Chaucer  and  Moliere  and  La  Bruyere  and  Shakespeare 
still  live  and  move  in  our  midst, — so  the  '  Will  Wini- 
*  hies'  and  '  Ned  Softlvs,'  the  '  Beau  Tibbs's'  and  the 
'  Men  in  Black,'  are  as  familiar  to  us  now  as  they 
were  to  tiie  be-wigged  and  be-powdered  readers  of 
the  '  Spectator  '  and  the  '  Citizen  of  the  World.'  We 
laugh  at  them  ;  but  we  sympathise  with  them  too ; 
and  iind  them,  on  the  whole,  more  enduringlv 
diverting  than  dissertations  on  the  '  Non-locality  of 
'  Happiness'  or  the  '  Position  of  the  Pineal  Gland.* 
In  the  conviction,  therefore,  that  the  majority  of 
the  graver  essays  have  lost  their  interest  for  the 
general  public,  the  present  gathering  is  mainly  con- 
fined to  sketches  of  character  and  manners,  and  those 
chiefly  of  the  humorous  kind.  The  examples  chosen 
will  speak  so  plainly  for  themselves  that  any  lengthy 
introduction  would  only  needlessly  occupy  space  ;  but 
a  few   rapid   indications  with   respect  to  the  earlier 

collections 


INTRODUCTIOX.  xiii 

collections  and  the  succession  of  the  leading  writers, 
will  not  be  superfluous.  Setting  aside  for  the  mo- 
ment the  '  Scandal  Club  '  of  Defoe's  '  Review,'  the 
Eighteenth-Century  Essay  proper  may  be  said  to  begin 
with  the  '  Tatler  '  by  '  Isaac  BickerstafF,  Esq.'— the 
first  number  of  which  is  dated  '  Tuesday,  April  12th, 
'  1709.'  In  appearance  it  was  a  modest-looking  sheet 
enough,  and  not  entirely  free  from  the  imputations  of 
'  tobacco-paper '  and  '  scurvy  letter  '  cast  upon  it  by 
an  injured  correspondent.*  Its  price  was  a  penny ; 
and  it  was  issued  three  times  a  week.  To  the  first 
and  many  subsequent  papers  was  prefixed  that  well- 
worn  '  Quicquid  agiint  homines  '  which  has  recently 
entered  upon  a  new  career  of  usefulness  with  Lord 
Beaconsfield's  '  Endvmion  ; '  and  its  '  general  pur- 
'  pose,'  as  discovered  in  the  '  Preface  '  to  vol.  i.,  was 
'  to  expose  the  false  arts  of  life  ;  to  pull  off  the  dis- 
'  guises  of  cunning,  vanitv,  and  aflectation  ;  and  to 
'  recommend  a  general  simplicity  in  our  dress,  our 
'  discourse,  and  our  behaviour.'  Steele's  first  idea 
seems  to  have  been  to  combine  the  latest  news  (for 
which  his  position  as  'Gazetteer'  gave  him  excep- 
tional facilities)  with  familiar  sketches  and  dramatic 
and  literary  notes.      But  after   eighty   iiumbets  had 

*  '  Tat'.er,"  No.  261. 

appeared 


xiv  INTRODUCTIOiW 

appeared,  he  was  permanently  joined  by  Addison,  and 
the  essay  began  to  assume  the  definite  form  which  it 
retained  for  a  century,  namely, — that  of  a  short  paper, 
general!}-  on  one  subject,  and  headed  with  a  Greek  or 
Latin  motto.  Then,  in  January  1711,  the  '  Tatler  ' 
came  to  an  end.  Its  place  was  filled,  in  the  following 
March,  by  the  more  famous  '  Spectator,'  which  ran 
its  career  until  December,  1712.  After  this,  in  1715, 
came  the  '  Guardian  ;'  and  in  1714  an  eighth  volume 
of  the  '  Spectator  '  was  issued  by  Addison  alone.  He 
was  also  the  sole  author  of  the  'Freeholder,'  171 5, 
which  contains  the  admirable  sketch  of  the  '  Tory 
'  I'oxhunter.'  Steele,  on  his  side,  followed  up  the 
'  Guardian  '  by  the  '  Lover,'  the  '  Reader,'  and  half-a- 
dozen  abortive  efforts  ;  but  his  real  successes,  as  well 
as  those  of  Addison,  were  in  the  three  great  collec- 
tions for  which  they  worked  together. 

Any  comparison  of  these  two  masters  of  the 
Eighteenth  -  Century  Essay  is  as  futile  as  it  will 
probably  be  perpetual.  While  people  continue  to 
pit  Fielding  against  Smollett,  and  Thackeray  against 
Dickens,  there  will  always  be  a  party  for  Addison  and 
a  party  for  Steele.  The  adherents  of  the  former  will 
draw  conviction  from  Lord  Macaulay's  famous  defiance 
m  the  '  Edinburgh  '  a-propos  of  Aikin's  '  Life  ; '  those 

of 


IXTRODUCTIOh'.  XV 

of  the  latter  from  that  vigorous  counterblast  which 
(after  ten  years'  meditation)  Mr.  Forster  sounded  in 
the  '  (Quarterly.'  But  the  real  lovers  of  literature  will 
be  content  to  enjoy  the  delightfully  distinctive  charac- 
teristics of  both.  For  them  Steele's  frank  and  genial 
humour,  his  chivalrous  attitude  to  women,  and  the  en- 
gaging warmth  and  generosity  of  his  nature,  will  retain 
their  attraction,  in  spite  of  his  literary  inequalities  and 
structural  negligence  ;  while  the  occasional  coldness 
and  restraint  of  Addison's  manner  will  not  prevent 
those  who  study  his  work  from  admiring  his  unfailing 
good  taste,  the  archness  of  his  wit,  his  charming  sub- 
humorous  gravity,  and  the  perfect  keeping  of  his 
character-painting.  It  is  needless  to  particularise  the 
c-iamples  here  selected  from  these  writers,  for  they  arc 
all  masterpieces. 

About  four-fifths  of  the  '  Tatler,'  '  Spectator,'  and 
'Guardian'  was  written  by  Addison  and  Steele 
alone.  The  work  of  their  coadjutors  was  conse- 
quently limited  in  extent,  and,  as  a  rule,  unimportant. 
Budgell,  Addison's  cousin,  whose  memory  survives 
chiefly  by  his  tragic  end,  and  a  malignant  couplet 
of  Pope,  was  one  of  the  most  regular.  Once, 
working  on  Addison's  lines,  and  aided,  it  may  be, 
by  Addison's    refining   pen,   he   made  a   respectable 

additiou 


xvi  IXTRODUCTIOK. 

addit.'oii  to  the  '  Coverley '  series,  which  is  he;e  re- 
printed ;  but  we  have  not  cared  to  preserve  any  further 
examples  of  his  style.  From  Hughes,  again,  another 
frequent  writer,  and  an  amiable  man,  whose  contribu- 
tions were  for  the  most  part  in  the  form  of  letters, 
nothing  has  been  taken.  Next,  by  the  amount  of  his 
assistance,  comes  the  Bishop  of  Cloyne  and  the  author 
of  '  Tar-water ' — ^the  great  and  good  Dr.  Berkelev. 
Excellent  as  they  are,  however,  his  papers  in  the 
'  Guardian '  against  Collins  and  the  Free-thinkers 
do  not  come  within  our  scheme.  Among  the  re- 
riaining  '  occasionals  '  were  several  '  eminent  hands.' 
These,  however,  though  they  graced  the  board,  did  not 
add  materially  to  the  feast.  Pope,  who  has  a  couple 
of  papers  in  the  '  Spectator'  and  eight  in  the  '  Guar- 
'  dian,'  is  not  at  his  best  as  an  essayist.  His  satire 
on  'Dedications,'*  and  his  side-laugh  at  Bossu  in 
the  'Receipt  to  make  an  Epick  Poem,'t  are  the 
happiest  of  his  efforts.  His  well-known  ironic  parallel 
between  the  pastorals  of  Ambrose  Philips  and  his 
own:}:  is  admirably  ingenious;  but,  unfortunately,  we 
have  come  to  think  the  one  as  artificial  as  the  other. 
The  '  City  Shower '§  of  Swift  scarcely  ranks  as  an 

*  'Guardian,'  No.  4.  +  'Guardian,'  No.  78. 

J  ■  Guardian,'  No.  40.         §  'T.ijler,'  No.  23S. 

essay 


IXTRODUCTIOX.  xvii 

essav  at  all,  and  liis  oiilv  remaining  paper  of  import- 
ance is  a  letter  on  '  Slang.'  *  This,  like  Pope's  pieces, 
h  too  exclusively  literary  for  our  purpose.  Of  Con- 
greve,  Gay,  Tickell,  Parnell,  and  the  long  list  of 
obscurer  writers,  there  is  nothing  that  seems  to  merit 
the  honours  of  revival. 

Between  the  'Guardian'  of  171 5  and  the  '  Ram- 
'  bier'  of  1730-2,  there  were  a  number  of  periodical 
essayists  of  varying  merit.  It  is  scarcely  necessary 
to  recall  the  names  of  these  now  forgotten  '  Intelli- 
'  gencers,'  '  Moderators,'  '  Remembrancers,'  and  the 
like,  the  bulk  of  which  were  political.  Fielding 
places  one  of  them,  the  '  Freethinker '  of  Philips, 
nearly  on  a  level  with  '  those  great  originals,  the 
'  "  Tatlers  "  and  "Spectators;"'  but  the  initial 
chapters  to  the  different  books  of  '  Tom  Jones  ' 
attract  us  more  forcibly  to  the  author's  own  '  Cham- 
'  pion,'  written  in  conjunction  with  the  Ralph  who 
'  makes  Night  hideous  '  in  the  '  Dunciad.'  Tho;e 
utterances,  however,  which  can  with  anv  certainty 
be  attributed  to  Fielding,  bear  such  obvious  signs  of 
haste  that  it  is  scarcely  fair  to  oppose  any  of  them 
to  the  more  finished  and  leisurely  efforts  of  Addison. 
Another  of  Fielding's  enterprises  in  the  '  Spectator' 
■*  'Tatle,'  No.  230. 


xviii  INTRODUCTIOX. 

vein  was  the  '  Coven t  Garden  Journal,'  1752.  This, 
besides  a  remarkable  paper  on  the  '  Choice  of  Books,' 
contains  a  masterly  essay  on  '  Profanity,'*  including 
a  character  sketch  of  the  most  vigorous  kind  ;  but 
the  very  fidelity  of  the  picture  unfits  it  for  a  modern 
audience. 

Concurrently  with  the  '  Covent  Garden  Journal ' 
appeared  the  final  volume  of  Johnson's  '  Rambler,' 
a  work  upon  the  cardinal  defect  of  which  its  author 
laid  his  finger  when,  in  later  life,  he  declared  it  to 
be  'too  wordy.'  Coming  from  the  Arch-Priest  of 
magniloquence,  this  is  no  light  admission.  He  seems 
also  to  have  been  fully  alive  to  its  want  of  variety, 
and  frequently  regretted  that  his  labours  had  not  been 
occasionally  relieved  by  some  lighter  pen,  in  which 
connection  (according  to  Arthur  Murphy)  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  quote  sonorously  his  o\\  n  fine  lines  to  Cave: 

'  Nou  ulla  Musis  fiagitin  grntior, 
'  Qua>n  gutp  severis  Indicia  juiigere 
'  Novit,faigatatiique  iiugi's 
'  Utilibus  recreare  vieiitent.' 

Lady  Mary  said  in  her  smart  way  that  the  '  Rambler' 
followed  the  '  Spectator  '  as  '  a  packhorse  would  do  a 

*  '  Covent  Garden  Journal,'  Nos.  10  and  33. 

'  hunter ; ' 


INTRODUCTION.  xix. 

'  hunter  ;  '  but  slow-paced  and  lumbering  as  it  is,  no 
one  can  fail  to  recognise  the  frequent  majesty  of  the 
periods  and  the  unil'orm  vigour  of  the  thought.  In 
the  twentv-nine  papers  which  Johnson  wrote  for 
Hawkesworth's  'Adventurer,'  the  'Rambler'  style 
is  maintaned.  In  the  '  Idler,'  however,  which  be- 
longs to  a  later  date,  when  its  author's  mind  was 
unclouded,  and  he  was  comparatively  free  from  the 
daily  pressure  of  necessity,  he  adopts  a  simpler  and 
less  polysyllabic  style.  It  is  true  that  he  still  speaks 
of  the  changes  of  the  barometer  as  '  the  fallacious 
*  promises  ...  of  the  oraculous  glasses  ;  '  but 
his  themes  are  less  d'dactic,  and,  in  an  unwieldy 
fashion,  almost  playful.  To  select  positively  humour- 
ous examples  from  his  papers  would,  notwithstanding, 
be  a  difficult  task.  Compared  with  the  somewhat 
similar  productions  of  earlier  essayists,*  the  oft-praised 
'  Journey  in  a  Stage-Coach  '  of  the  '  Adventurer'  is 
poor ;  but  his  large  knowledge  of  literature  and  lite- 
rary lile  gives  point  to  the  portrait  of  that  inimitably 
common-place  critic  '  Dick  Minim,'  though  even  here 
Addison  has  anticipated  him  with  '  Sir  Timothy 
'  Tittle. 't     '  Dick  Minim'  appears  to  have  suggested 

*  e-S-,  'Spectator,'  No.  112.  t  '  Tat'er,' No.  165. 

three 


XX  IXTRODUCTION. 

three  letters  from  Reynolds,  the  first  of  which,  on 
'  Art-Connoisseurs,'  \ve  have  been  tempted  to  repro- 
duce. Neither  Langton  nor  Thomas  Warton,  both 
of  whom  gave  some  assistance  in  the  '  Idler,'  supplied 
:inything  of  more  importance  than  this  thoughtful,  if 
not  very  satirical,  paper  by  Sir  Joshua. 

As  already  stated,  Johnson  was  only  a  contributor 
to  the  '  Adventurer,'  1752,  the  editor  and  chief  writer 
of  which  was  Dr.  Hawkesworth  of  '  Cook's  Voyages,' 
•who  was  aided  by  Bathurst  the  physician,  and  Joseph 
Warton.  '  Jack  Hawkesworth,'  said  Johnson,  '  is 
'  one  of  my  imitators.'  His  strength  lay  chiefly  in 
the  old-fashioned  oriental  tale,  and  his  social  efforts 
are  not  very  remarkable.  In  the  '  Gradation  from  a 
'  Greenhorn  to  a  Blood  '  *  there  is  some  useful  cos- 
tume ;  and  there  are  ludicrous  passages  in  the  '  Dis- 
'  tresses  of  an  Author  invited  to  read  his  Play,'  where, 
by  the  way,  the  writer  vindicates  his  claim  to  be 
reckoned  a  follower  of  '  the  great  Lexicographer,'  by 
speaking  of  a  chance  addition  to  his  wig  as  '  the 
'  pendulous  reproach  to  the  honours  of  my  head  ; ' 
but  it  would  not  be  possible  to  admit  these  two 
papers,  as  well  as  some  others  in  the  '  Adventurer,' 

*  'Adventurer,'  No.  100.       t  'Adventurer,' No.  52. 

into 


IXTRODUCTIOW  xxi 

into  any  modern  collection,  without  what,  when  they 
were  written,  would  have  been  styled  'judicious  cas- 
'  ligation.'  For  our  present  purpose,  therefore,  we 
have  borrowed  nothing  from  Hawkesworth  and  his 
colleagues. 

With  the  exception  of  Goldsmith's  '  Chinese  Let- 
•  ters  '  in  the  '  Public  Ledger,'  the  most  noteworthy 
of  the  remaining  Essayists  are  the  '  World,'  1755-6, 
and  the  '  Connoisseur,'  1754-6.  The  editor  of  the 
former  was  Edward  Moore,  author  ot  some  once- 
popular  '  Fables  for  the  Female  Sex.'  With  the 
assistance  of  Fielding's  friend,  Lyttelton,  his  list  of 
contributors  was  swelled  by  a  number  of  aristocrati-: 
amateurs,  such  as  Che;".terrield,  Horace  Walpole,  Soame 
Jeuyns,  Sir  Charles  Hanbury  \\'illiams,  Hamilton 
Boyle,  and  the  '  World  '  became,  par  excellence,  the 
Eighteenth-Century  journal  '  written  by  gentlemen 
'  for  gentlemen,' — '  the  bow  of  Ulysses  (as  one  of  the 
'  writers  put  it),  in  which  it  was  the  fashion  lor  men 
'  of  rank  and  genius  to  try  their  strength.*  The 
'  Connoisseur,'  on  the  other  hand,  Avai  mainly  the 
work  of  two  friends,  George  Colnian  and  Bonnel 
Thornton,  the  Erckmann  -  Chatrian  of  their  age. 
Whether  writing  separately  or  together,  their  style 
is  undistinguishable.    They  had  a  few  assistant?,  the 

most 


xxii  IXTRODUCTIOX. 

most  notable  of  whom  were  Cowper  the  poet,  and 
Churchill's  friend,  the  unfortunate  Robert  Lloyd. 
From  the  'Connoisseur'  and  the  'World'  we  have 
made  one  or  two  selections. 

On  the  '  Citizen  of  the  World,'  1760-1,  there  is  no 
need  to  enlarge.  That  charm  of  simplicity  and  grace, 
of  kindliness  and  gentle  humour,  which  we  recognise 
as  Goldsmith's  special  property,  requires  no  fresh  de- 
scription. The  remaining  Essayists  of  any  importance 
may  be  summarily  dismissed.  From  the  Edinburgh 
'  .Mirror,'  1779-80,  and  its  sequel  the  '  Lounger,' 
1785-7,  one  paper  only  has  been  chosen.  But  there 
are  others  which  show  that  Henry  Mackenzie,  the 
chief  writer,  is  something  more  than  the  watery  Sterne 
of  the  '  Man  of  Feeling  '  and  '  Julia  de  Roubigne,' 
and  that  he  had  gifts  as  a  humourist  and  character- 
painter  of  no  mean  order.  From  the  '  Observer  '  of 
Richard  Cumberland,  1785-90,  a  large  proportion  of 
which  is  made  up  of  papers  on  Greek  Literature,  we 
have  taken  nothing. 

A  retrospect  of  the  Eighteenth-Century  Essayists 
subsequent  to  the  '  Tatler,'  '  Spectator  '  and  '  Guar- 
'  dian,'  only  serves  to  confirm  the  supremacy  of 
Addison  and  Steele.  Some  of  their  successors  ap- 
proached them  in  serious  writing ;  others  carried  the 

lighter 


ISTROnUCTIOK.  xxi;i 

lighter  kinds  to  considerable  perfection ;  hut  none 
(GoldsmitTi  alone  excepted)  really  rivalled  them  in 
that  happy  mingling  of  the  lively  and  severe,  which 
Johnson  envied  but  could  not  emulate.  In  native 
purity  of  tone,  moreover,  they  were  lar  in  advance 
of  their  age,  and  were  certainly  not  excelled  by  any 
of  those  who  followed  them.  For  this  reason,  no 
less  than  for  their  general  superiority,  their  work 
preponderates  in  the  present  volume. 

It  is  only  necessary  to  add,  that  as  the  conditions 
under  which  the  essays  first  appeared  make  it  easy 
to  date  them  accurately,  the  chronological  order  has 
been  adopted  in  preference  to  any  more  elaborate 
arrangement.  With  the  exception  of  some  retrench- 
ments specified  in  the  notes,  and  the  alteration  or 
suppression  of  a  word  now  and  again,  the  text  of  the 
best  editions  has  been  scrupulously  followed. 

Austin  Dobson. 


13  Grange  Park, 
Ealing,  \V. 


MR. 


Tatler]  N^  I  [Steels 

MR.  BICKERSTAFF  VISITS  A   FRIEND. 


Interea  diilces  pendent  circtan  oscula  iiati  : 

Casta  ptidicitiam  servat  domiis 

— ViRG. 


'  I  ""HERE  are  several  persons  who  have  many  plea- 
-*-  sures  and  entertainments  in  their  possession 
■which  they  do  not  enjoy.  It  is  therefore  a  kind  and 
good  office  to  acquaint  them  with  their  own  liappiness, 
and  turn  their  attention  to  such  instances  of  their  good 
fortune  which  they  are  apt  to  overlook.  Persons  in 
the  married  state  often  want  such  a  monitor,  and  pine 
away  their  days,  by  looking  upon  the  same  condition 
in  anguish  and  murmur,  which  carries  with  it  in  the 
opinion  of  others  a  complication  of  all  the  pleasures 
of  life,  and  a  retreat  from  its  inquietudes. 

I  am  led  into  this  thought  by  a  visit  I  made  an  old 
friend,  who  was  fornierly  my  school-fellow.     He  came 

3  '° 


2     MR.  BICKERSTAFF  VISITS  A  FRIEND. 

to  town  last  week  with  his  family  for  the  winter,  and 
yesterday  morning  sent  me  word  his  wife  expected  me 
to  dinner.  I  am  as  it  were  at  home  at  that  house,  and 
every  member  of  it  knows  me  for  their  wellwisher. 
1  cannot,  indeed,  express  the  pleasure  it  is,  to  be  met 
by  the  children  with  so  much  joy  as  I  am  when  I  go 
thither  :  the  boys  and  girls  strive  who  shall  come  first, 
when  they  think  it  is  I  that  am  knocking  at  the  door ; 
and  that  child  which  loses  the  race  to  me,  runs  back 
again  to  tell  the  father  it  is  Mr.  Bickerstaff.  This  day 
I  was  led  i.i  by  a  pretty  girl,  that  we  all  thought  must 
have  forgot  me,  for  the  family  has  been  out  of  town 
these  two  years.  Her  knowing  me  again  was  a  mighty 
subject  with  us,  and  took  up  our  discourse  at  the  first 
entrance.  After  which,  they  began  to  rally  me  upon 
a  thousand  little  stories  they  heard  in  the  country 
about  my  marriage  to  one  of  my  neighbour's  daugh- 
ters :  upon  which  the  gentleman,  my  friend,  said^ 
'  Nay,  if  Mr.  Bickerstaff  marries  a  child  of  any  of  his 
'  old  companions,  I  hope  mine  shall  have  the  prefer- 
'  ence.  There  is  Mrs.  Mary  is  now  sixteen,  and 
'  would  make  him  as  fine  a  widow  as  the  best  of  them  : 
'  but  I  know  him  too  well ;  he  is  so  enamoured  with 
*  the  very  memory  of  those  who  flourished  in  our 
'  youth,  that  he  will  not  so  much  as  look  upon  the 

'  modern 


MR.  BICKERSTAFF  VISITS  A  FRIEND,     j 

'  modern  beauties.  I  remember,  old  gentleman,  how 
'  often  you  went  home  in  a  day  to  refresh  your  coun- 
'  tenance  and  dress,  when  Teraminta  reigned  in  your 
'  heart.  As  we  came  up  in  the  coach,  I  repeated  to 
'  my  wife  some  of  your  verses  on  her.'  With  such 
reflections  on  little  passages  which  happened  long  ago, 
we  passed  our  time  during  a  cheerful  and  elegant 
meal.  After  dinner,  his  lady  left  the  room,  as  did 
also  the  children.  As  soon  as  we  were  alone,  he  took 
me  by  the  hand — '  Well,  my  good  friend,'  says  he, 
'  I  am  heartily  glad  to  see  thee ;  I  was  afraid  you 
'  would  never  have  seen  all  the  company  that  dined 
'  with  you  to-day  agam.  Do  not  you  think  the  good 
'  woman  of  the  house  a  little  altered,  since  you  fol- 
'  lowed  her  from  the  play-house,  to  find  out  who  she 
'  was  for  me  ?  '  I  perceived  a  tear  fall  down  his  cheek 
as  he  spoke,  which  moved  me  not  a  little.  But  to 
turn  the  discourse,  said  I — '  She  is  not,  indeed,  quite 
'  that  creature  she  was  when  she  returned  me  the 
'  letter  I  carried  from  you  ;  and  told  me  she  hoped,  as 
'  I  was  a  gentleman,  I  would  be  employed  no  more  to 
'  trouble  her,  who  had  never  offended  me  ;  but  would 
'  be  so  much  the  gentleman's  friend  as  to  dissuade 
'  him  from  a  pursuit  which  he  could  never  succeed  in. 
'  You  may  remember,  1  thought  her  in  earnest,  and  you 

'  were 


4     MR.  BICKERSTAFF  VISITS  A  FRIEND. 

'  were  forced  to  employ  j'our  cousin  Will,  who  made 
'  his  sister  get  acquainted  with  her  for  you.  You 
'  cannot  expect  her  to  be  for  ever  fifteen.' — '  Fifteen  ! ' 
replied  my  good  friend  ;  'Ah  !  you  little  understand, 
'  you  that  have  lived  a  bachelor,  how  great,  how  ex- 
'  quisite  a  pleasure  there  is  in  being  really  beloved  ! 
'  It  is  impossible  that  the  most  beauteous  face  in 
'  nature  should  raise  in  me  such  pleasing  ideas,  as 
'  when  I  look  upon  that  excellent  woman.  That 
'  fading  in  her  countenance  is  chiefly  caused  by  lier 
'  watchmg  with  me  in  my  fever.  This  was  followed 
'  by  a  fit  of  sickness,  which  had  like  to  have  carried 
'  her  off  last  winter.  I  tell  you  sincerely,  I  have  so 
'  many  obligations  to  her,  that  I  cannot  with  any 
'  sort  of  moderation  think  of  her  present  state  of 
'  health.  But  as  to  what  you  say  of  fifteen,  she  gives 
'  me  every  day  pleasures  beyond  what  I  ever  knew  in 
'  the  possession  of  her  beauty,  when  I  was  in  the 
t  vigour  of  youth.  Every  moment  of  her  life  brings 
'  me  fresh  instances  of  her  complacency  to  my  incli> 
'  nations,  and  her  prudence  in  regard  to  my  fortune. 
'  Her  face  is  to  me  much  more  beautiful  than  when  1 
'  first  saw  it ;  there  is  no  decay  in  any  feature  which 
'  1  cannot  trace  from  the  very  instant  it  was  occasioned 
'  by  some  anxious  concern  for  my  welfare  and  interests. 

'  Thus 


MR.  BICKERSTAFF  VISITS  A  FRIEND.      5 

'  Thus  at  the  same  time,  methinks,  the  love  I  con- 
'  ceiveJ  towards  her,  for  what  she  was,  is  heightened 
'  by  my  gratitude  for  what  she  is.  The  love  of  a  wife 
'  is  as  much  above  the  idle  passion  commonly  called 
'  by  that  name,  as  the  loud  laughter  of  buffoons  is 
'  inferior  to  the  elegant  mirth  of  gentlemen.  Oh  ! 
'  she  is  an  inestimable  jewel.  In  her  examination  of 
'  her  household  affairs,  she  shews  a  certain  fearful- 
'  ness  to  find  a  fault,  which  makes  her  servants  obey 
'  her  like  children  ;  and  the  meanest  we  have  has  an 
'  ingenuous  shame  for  an  offence,  not  always  to  ba 
'  seen  in  children  in  other  families.  I  speak  freely  to 
'  you,  my  old  friend  ;  ever  since  her  sickness,  things 
'  that  gave  me  the  quickest  joy  before,  turn  now  to  a 
'  certain  anxiety.  As  the  children  play  in  the  next 
'  room,  I  know  the  poor  things  by  their  steps,  and 
'  am  considering  what  they  must  do,  should  they  lose 
'  their  mother  in  their  tender  years.  The  pleasure  I 
'  used  to  take  in  telling  my  boy  stories  of  the  battles, 
'  and  asking  my  girl  questions  about  the  disposal  of 
'  her  baby,  and  the  gossiping  of  it,  is  turned  into 
'  inward  reflection  and  melancholy.' 

He  would  have  gone  on  in  this  tender  way,  when 
the  good  lady  entered,  and  with  an  inexpressible 
sweetness  iu  her  countenance  told  us,  she  had  been 

searching 


6     MR.  BICKERSTAFF  VISITS  A  FRIEND. 

searching  her  closet  for  something  very  good,  to  treat 
such  an  old  friend  as  I  was.  Her  husband's  eyes 
sparkled  with  pleasure  at  the  cheerfulness  of  her 
countenance  ;  and  1  saw  all  his  fears  vanish  in  an 
instant.  The  lady  observing  something  in  our  looks 
which  shewed  we  had  been  more  serious  than  ordi- 
nary, and  seeing  her  husband  receive  her  with  great 
concern  under  a  forced  cheerfulness,  immediately 
guessed  at  what  we  had  been  talking  of ;  and  apply- 
ing herself  to  me,  said  with  a  smile—'  Mr.  Bickerstaff, 
'  do  not  believe  a  word  of  what  he  tells  you,  I  shall 
'  still  live  to  have  you  for  my  second,  as  I  have  often 
'  promised  you,  unless  he  takes  more  care  of  himself 
'  than  he  has  done  since  his  coming  to  town.  You 
'  must  know,  he  tells  me,  that  he  finds  London  is  a 
'  much  more  healthy  place  than  the  country ;  for  he 
'  sees  several  of  his  old  acquaintance  and  school-fel- 
'  lows  are  here  young  fellows  with  fair  full-bottomed 
'  periwigs.  I  could  scarce  keep  him  this  morning 
'  from  going  out  open-breasted.'  My  friend,  who  is 
always  extremely  delighted  with  her  agreeable  humour, 
made  her  sit  down  with  us.  She  did  it  with  that  easi- 
ness which  is  peculiar  to  women  of  sense  and  to 
keep  up  the  good  humour  she  had  brought  in  with 
her,  turned  her  raillery  upon  me  :    '  Mr.  BickerstafF, 

'  you 


MR.  BICKERSTAFF  VISITS  A  FRIEND.      7 

'  you  remember  you  followed  me  one  night  from  the 
'  play-house  ;  supposing  you  should  carry  me  thither 
'  to-morrow  night,  and  lead  me  into  the  front-box.' 
This  put  us  into  a  long  field  of  discourse  about  the 
beauties,  who  were  mothers  to  the  present,  and  shined 
in  the  boxes  twenty  years  ago.  I  told  her  I  was  glad 
she  had  transferred  so  many  of  her  charms,  and  I  did 
not  question  but  her  eldest  daughter  was  within  half  a 
year  of  being  a  toast. 

We  were  pleasing  ourselves  with  this  fantastical 
preferment  of  the  young  lady,  when  on  a  sudden  we 
were  alarmed  with  the  noise  of  a  drum,  and  immedi- 
ately entered  my  little  godson  to  give  me  a  point  of 
war.  His  mother,  between  laughing  and  chiding, 
would  have  put  him  out  of  the  room  ;  but  I  would 
not  part  with  him  so.  I  found,  upon  conversation 
with  him,  though  he  was  a  little  noisy  m  his  mirth, 
that  the  child  had  excellent  parts,  and  was  a  great 
master  of  all  the  learning  on  the  other  side  eight 
years  old.  I  perceived  him  a  very  great  historian  in 
jEsop's  Fables :  but  he  frankly  declared  to  me  his 
mind,  that  he  did  not  delight  in  that  learning,  be- 
cause he  did  not  believe  they  were  true  ;  for  which 
reason  I  found  he  had  very  much  turned  his  studies 
for  about  a   twelvemonth   past,    into  the    lives  and 

adventures 


8     MR.  BICKERSTAFF  VISITS  A  FRIEND. 

adventures  of  Don  Belianis  of  Greece,  Guy  of  War- 
wick, the  Seven  Champions,  and  other  historians  of 
that  ao'e.  I  could  not  but  observe  the  satisfaction  the 
father  took  in  the  forwardness  of  his  son  ;  and  that 
these  diversions  might  turn  to  some  profit,  I  found 
the  boy  had  made  remarks,  which  might  be  of  service 
to  him  during  the  course  of  his  whole  life.  He  would 
tell  you  the  mismanagements  of  John  Hickathrift,  find 
fault  with  the  passionate  temper  in  Bevis  of  South- 
ampton, and  love  Saint  George  for  being  the  cham- 
pion of  England  ;  and  by  this  means,  had  his  thoughts 
insensibly  moulded  into  the  notions  of  discretion, 
virtue,  and  honour.  I  was  extolling  his  accomplish- 
ments, when  the  mother  told  me,  that  the  little  girl 
who  led  me  in  this  morning,  was  in  her  way  a  better 
scholar  than  he  :   '  Betty,'  says  she,  '  deals  chiefly  in 

*  fairies  and   sprights  ;    and  sometimes  in  a  winter 

*  night,  will  terrify  the  maids  with  her  accounts,  till 
'  they  are  afraid  to  go  up  to  bed.' 

I  sat  with  them  till  it  was  very  late,  sometimes  in 
merry,  sometimes  in  serious  discourse,  with  this  par- 
ticular pleasure,  which  gives  the  only  true  relish  to  all 
conversation,  a  sense  that  every  one  of  us  liked  each 
other.  I  went  home,  considering  the  different  con- 
ditions of  a  married  life  and  that  of  a  bachelor;  and 

I 


MR.  BICKERSTAFF  VISITS  A  FRIEND.     9 

I  must  confess  it  struck  me  with  a  secret  concern,  to 
reflect,  that  whenever  I  go  off,  I  shall  leave  no  traces 
behind  me.  In  this  pensive  mood  1  returned  to  my 
family  ;  that  is  to  say,  to  my  maid,  my  dog,  and 
my  cat,  who  only  can  be  the  better  or  worse  for  what 
happens  to  me. 

[Nov.  17,  1709.] 


MR. 


Tatler]  N°  2  [Steele 

MR.  BICKERSTAFF   VISITS  A   FRIEND 

— Continued. 


Ut  in  vita,  sic  in  stitdiis,  piilcherrintum  et  hiimanissi- 
viiim  exisiimo,  scveritatem  coinitatemque  miscere,  ne  ilia 
in  tristitiam,  hccc  in  pctulantiani  procedat. — Plin. 


I  WAS  walking  about  mv  chamber  this  morning 
in  a  very  gay  humour,  when  I  saw  a  coach 
stop  at  my  door,  and  a  youth  about  fifteen  alighting 
out  of  it,  whom  I  perceived  to  be  the  eldest  son  of 
my  bosom-friend,  that  I  gave  some  account  of  in  my 
paper  of  the  seventeenth  of  the  last  month.  I  felt  a 
sensible  pleasure  rising  in  me  at  the  sight  of  him, 
my  acquaintance  having  begun  with  his  father  when 
he  was  just  such  a  stripling,  and  about  that  very  age. 
When  he  came  up  to  me.  he  took  me  by  the  hand, 
and  burst  out  in  tears.  I  was  extremely  moved,  and 
immediately  said — '  Child,  how  does  your  father  do?' 

He  began  to  reply—'  My  mother '  but  could  not 

go 


MR.  BICKERSTAFF  VISITS  A  FRIEND,    ir 

go  on  for  weeping.  I  went  down  with  him  into  the 
coach,  and  gathered  out  of  him,  that  his  mother  was 
then  dying,  and  that  while  the  holy  man  was  doing 
the  last  offices  to  her,  he  had  taken  that  time  to  come 
and  call  me  to  his  father,  wlio  (he  said)  would 
certainly  break  his  heart  if  I  did  not  go  and  comfort 
him.  The  child's  discretion  in  coming  to  me  of  his 
own  head,  and  the  tenderness  he  shewed  for  his 
parents,  would  have  quite  overpowered  me,  had  I 
not  resolved  to  fortify  myself  for  the  seasonable  per- 
formances of  those  duties  which  I  owed  to  my  friend. 
As  we  were  going,  I  could  not  but  reflect  upon  the 
character  of  that  excellent  woman,  and  the  greatness 
of  his  grief  for  the  loss  of  one  who  has  ever  been  the 
support  to  him  under  all  other  afflictions.  '  How,' 
thought  I,  'will  he  be  able  to  bear  the  hour  of  her 
'  death,  that  could  not,  when  I  was  lately  with  him, 
'  speak  of  a  sickness,  which  was  then  past,  without 
'  sorrow?'  We  were  now  got  pretty  far  into  West- 
minster, and  arrived  at  my  friend's  house.  At  the 
door  of  it  1  met  Favonius,  not  without  a  secret 
satisfaction  to  find  he  had  been  there.  I  had  formerly 
conversed  with  him  at  his  house  ;  and  as  he  abounds 
with  that  sort  of  virtue  and  knowledge  which  makes 
religion  beautiful,  and  never  leads  the  conversation 

into 


12    MR.  BICKERSTAFF  VISITS  A  FRIEND. 

into  the  violence  and  rage  of  party  disputes,  I  listened 
to  him  with  great  pleasure.  Our  discourse  chanced 
to  be  upon  the  subject  of  death,  which  he  treated 
■with  such  a  strength  of  reason,  and  greatness  of  soul, 
that  instead  of  being  terrible,  it  appeared  to  a  mind 
rightly  cultivated,  altogether  to  be  contemned,  or 
rather  to  be  desired.  As  I  met  him  at  the  door, 
I  saw  in  his  face  a  certain  glowing  of  grief  and 
humanity,  heightened  with  an  air  of  fortitude  and 
resolution,  which,  as  I  afterwards  found,  had  such 
an  irresistible  force,  as  to  suspend  the  pains  of  the 
dying,  and  the  lamentations  of  the  nearest  friends 
■who  attended  her.  I  went  up  directly  to  the  room 
where  she  lay,  and  was  met  at  the  entrance  by  my 
friend,  who,  notwithstanding  his  thoughts  had  been 
composed  a  little  before,  at  the  sight  of  me  turned 
away  his  face  and  wept.  The  little  family  of  children 
renewed  the  expressions  of  their  sorrow  according  to 
their  several  ages  and  degrees  of  understanding.  The 
eldest  daughter  was  in  tears,  busied  in  attendance 
upon  her  mother ;  others  were  kneeling  about  the 
bedside  :  and  what  troubled  me  most  was  to  see  a 
little  boy,  who  was  too  young  to  know  the  reason, 
weeping  only  because  his  sisters  did.  The  only  one 
in  the  room  who  seemed  resigned  and  comforted  was 

the 


MR.  BICKERSTAFF  VISITS  A  FRIEND.    15 

the  dying  person.  At  my  approach  to  the  bedside, 
she  told  me,  with  a  low  broken  voice — '  This  13 
'  kindly  done — Take  care  of  your  friend — Don't  go 
'  from  him.'  She  had  before  taken  leave  of  her 
husband  and  children,  in  a  manner  proper  for  so 
solemn  a  parting,  and  with  a  gracefulness  peculiar 
to  a  woman  of  her  character.  My  heart  was  torn  in 
p:eces  to  see  the  husband  on  one  side  suppressing 
and  keeping  down  the  swellings  of  his  grief,  for  fear 
of  disturbing  her  in  her  last  moments  ;  and  the  wife 
even  at  that  time  concealing  the  pains  she  endured, 
for  fear  of  increasing  his  affliction.  She  kept  her 
eyes  upon  him  for  some  moments  after  she  grew 
speechless,  and  soon  after  closed  them  for  ever.  In 
the  moment  of  her  departure,  my  friend  (who  had 
thus  far  commanded  himself)  gave  a  deep  groan,  and 
fell  into  a  swoon  by  her  bedside.  The  distraction 
of  the  children,  who  thought  they  saw  both  their 
parents  expiring  together,  and  now  lying  dead  before 
them,  would  have  melted  the  hardest  heart ;  but  they 
soon  perceived  their  father  recover,  whom  I  helped 
to  remove  into  another  room,  with  a  resolution  to 
accompany  him  until  the  first  pangs  of  his  affliction 
were  abated.  I  knew  consolation  would  now  be 
impertinent;    and  therefore  contented  myself  to  sit 

by 


14  MR.  BICKHRSTAFF  VISITS  A  FRIEND. 

by  him,  and  condole  with  him  in  silence.  For  I 
shall  here  use  the  method  of  an  ancient  author,  who 
in  one  of  his  epistles  relating  the  virtues  and  death  Oi 
Macrinus's  wife,  expresses  himself  thus  :  '  I  shall 
'  suspend  my  advice  to  this  best  of  friends,  until 
'  he  is  made  capable  of  receiving  it  by  those  three 
'  great  remedies — Necessitas  ipsa,  dies  longa,  et  sati.-ias 
'  doloris — the  necessity  of  submission,  length  of  time, 
'  and  satiety  of  grief.' 

In  the  mean  time,  I  cannot  but  consider  with 
much  commiseration,  the  melancholy  state  of  one 
who  has  had  such  a  part  of  himself  torn  from  him, 
and  which  he  misses  in  every  circumstance  of  life. 
His  condition  is  like  that  of  one  who  has  lately  lost 
his  right-arm,  and  is  every  moment  offering  to  help 
himself  with  it.  He  does  not  appear  to  himself  the 
same  person  in  his  house,  at  his  table,  in  company, 
or  in  retirement ;  and  loses  the  relish  of  all  the 
pleasures  and  diversions  that  were  before  entertaining 
to  him  by  her  participation  of  them.  The  most 
agreeable  objects  recal  the  sorrow  for  her  with  whom 
he  used  to  enjoy  them.  This  additional  satisfaction, 
from  the  taste  of  pleasures  in  the  society  of  one  we 
love,  is  admirably  described  in  Milton,  who  repre- 
sents   Eve,    though    in    Paradise    itself,    no   farther 

pleased 


MR.  BICKERSTAFF  VISITS  A  FRIEND.    i$ 

pleased  with  the  beautiful  objects  around  her,  than 
as  she  sees  them  in  company  with  Adam,  in  that 
passage  so  inexpressibly  charming — 


With  thee  conversing,  I  forgot  all  time. 
All  seasons,  and  their  change  ;  all  please  alike. 
Sweet  is  the  hreath  of  morn,  her  rising  sweet 
With  charm  of  eailiest  birds  ;  pleasant  the  sun, 
When  first  on  this  delightful  land  he  spreads 
His  orient  beams,  on  herb,  tree,  fruit  and  flower, 
Glist'ring  with  dew  ;  fragrant  the  fertile  earth 
After  soft  show'rs,  and  sweet  the  coming  on 
Of  grateful  ev'ning  mild  ;  the  silent  night, 
With  this  her  solemn  bird,  and  this  fair  moon. 
And  these  the  gems  of  heaven,  her  starry  train. 
But  neither  breath  of  morn  when  she  ascends 
With  charm  of  earliest  birds,  nor  rising  sun 
In  this  delightful  land,  nor  herb,  fruit,  flower, 
Glist'ring  with  dew,  nor  fragrant  after  showers, 
Nor  grateful  ev'ning  mild,  nor  silent  night. 
With  this  her  solemn  bird,  nor  walk  by  moon, 
Of  glittering  star-light,  without  thee  is  sweet. 


The  variety  of  images  in  this  passage  is  infinitely 
pleasing,  and  the  recapitulation  of  each  particular 
image,  with  a  little  varying  of  the  expression,  makes 
one  of  the  finest  turns  of  words  that  I  have  ever 
seen  :  which  I  rather  mention,  because  Mr.  Dryden 

has 


i6  MR.  BICKERSTAFF  VISITS  A  FRIEXD. 

has  said  in  his  preface  to  Juvenal,  that  he  could  meet 
with  no  turn  of  words  in  Mihon. 

It  may  be  further  observed,  that  though  the  sweet- 
ness of  these  verses  has  something  in  it  of  a  pastoral, 
yet  it  excels  the  ordinary  kind,  as  much  as  the  scene 
of  it  is  above  an  ordinary  field  or  meadow.  I  might 
here,  since  I  am  accidentally  led  into  this  subject, 
shew  several  passages  in  Milton  that  have  as  excellent 
turns  of  this  nature,  as  any  of  our  English  poets 
whatsoever ;  but  shall  only  mention  that  which  fol- 
lows, in  which  he  describes  the  fallen  angels  engaged 
in  the  intricate  disputes  of  predestination,  free-will, 
and  fore-knowledge  ;  and  to  humour  the  perplexity, 
makes  a  kind  of  labyrinth  in  the  very  words  that 
describe  it — 

Others  apart  sate  on  a  hill  retir'd, 
In  ihoiighis  more  elevate,  and  reasoned  high 
Of  providence,  fore-knowledge,  will,  and  fate, 
Fix'd  fate,  free-will,  fore-knowledge  absolute. 
And  found  no  end  in  wand'ring  mazes  lost. 

[Dec.  31,  1709.] 


THE 


iATLER]  N      3  [Steele 

THE    TRUMPET    CLUB. 


Haheo  senectiiti  magnam  gratiain,  qua  inihi  sennoiiis 
aviditatem  aitxit,  potioms  el  cibi  sustulit. 

— TuLL.  DE  Sen. 


A  FTER  having  applied  my  mind  with  more  than 


rv 


ordinary    attention    to   my  studies,    it   is   my 


usual  custom  to  relax  and  unbend  it  in  the  conversa- 
tion of  such  as  are  rather  easy  than  shming  com- 
panions. This  I  find  particularly  necessary  for  me 
before  I  retire  to  rest,  in  order  to  draw  my  slumbers 
upon  me  by  degrees,  and  fall  asleep  insensibly.  This 
is  the  particular  use  I  make  of  a  set  of  heavy  honest 
men,  with  whom  I  have  passed  many  hours  with 
much  indolence,  though  not  with  great  pleasure. 
Their  conversation  is  a  kind  of  preparative  for  sleep : 
it  takes  the  mind  down  from  its  abstractione,  leads  it 
into  the  familiar  traces  of  thought,  and  lulls  it  into 
A  that 


1 8  THE  TRUMPET  CLUB. 

that  state  of  tranquillity  which  is  the  condition  of  a 
thinking  man,  when  he  is  but  half  awake.  After  this, 
my  reader  will  not  be  surprised  to  hear  the  account 
which  I  am  about  to  give  of  a  club  of  my  own  con- 
temporaries, among  whom  I  pass  two  or  three  hours 
every  evening.  This  I  look  upon  as  taking  my  first 
nap  before  I  go  to  bed.  The  truth  of  it  is,  I  should 
think  myself  unjust  to  posterity,  as  well  as  to  the 
society  at  the  Titiiiipct,  of  which  I  am  a  member,  did 
not  I  in  some  part  of  my  writings  give  an  account  of 
the  persons  among  whom  I  have  passed  almost  a 
sixth  part  of  my  time  tor  these  last  forty  years.  Our 
club  consisted  originally  of  fifteen  ;  but  partly  by 
the  severity  of  the  law  in  arbitrary  times,  and  partly 
by  the  natural  effects  of  old-age,  we  are  at  present 
reduced  to  a  third  part  of  that  number  :  in  which, 
however,  we  have  this  consolation,  that  the  best 
company  is  said  to  consist  of  five  persons.  I  must 
confess,  besides  the  afore-mentioned  benefit  which  I 
meet  with  in  the  conversation  of  this  select  society, 
I  am  not  the  less  pleased  with  the  company,  in  that 
I  find  myself  the  greatest  wit  among  them,  and  am 
heard  as  their  oracle  in  all  points  of  learning  and 
difficulty. 

Sir  Jeoffrey  Notch,  who  is  the  oldest  of  the  club, 

has 


THE  TRUMPET  CLUB.  19 

has  been  in  possession  of  the  right-hand  chair  time 
out  of  mind,  and  is  the  only  man  among  us  that  has 
the  liberty  of  stirring  the  fire.  This  our  foreman  is 
a  gentleman  of  an  ancient  family,  that  came  to  a 
great  estate  some  years  before  he  had  discretion,  and 
run  it  out  in  hounds,  horses,  and  cock-fighting  ;  for 
which  reason  he  looks  upon  himself  as  an  honest, 
worthy  gentleman,  who  has  had  misfortunes  in  the 
world,  and  calls  every  thriving  man  a  pitiful  upstart. 

Major  Matchlock  is  the  next  senior,  who  served  in 
the  last  civil  wars,  and  has  all  the  battles  by  heart. 
He  does  not  think  any  action  in  Europe  worth  talking 
of  since  the  fight  of  Marston-Moor  ;  and  every  night 
tells  us  of  his  having  been  knocked  oft  his  horse  at 
the  rising  of  the  Londo;i  apprentices  ;  for  which  he 
is  in  great  esteem  among  us. 

Honest  old  Dick  Reptile  is  the  third  of  our  society. 
He  is  a  good-natured  indolent  man,  who  speaks  little 
himself,  but  laughs  at  our  jokes  ;  and  brings  his 
young  nephew  along  with  him,  a  youth  of  eighteen 
years  old,  to  shew  him  good  company,  and  give  him 
a  taste  of  the  world.  This  young  fellow  sits  generally 
silent ;  but  whenever  he  opens  his  mouth,  or  laughs 
at  any  thing  that  passes,  he  is  constantly  told  by  his 
uncle,  after  a  jocular  manner — '  Aye,  aye.  Jack,  you 

'  young 


20  THE  TRUMPET  CLUB. 

•  young  men  think  us  fools  ;  hut  we  old  men  know 
'  you  are.' 

The  greatest  wit  of  our  company,  next  to  myself, 
is  a  Bencher  of  the  neighbouring  inn,  who  in  his 
youth  frequented  the  ordinaries  about  Charing  Cross, 
and  pretends  to  have  been  intimate  with  Jack  Ogle. 
He  has  about  ten  distiches  of  Hudibras  without  book, 
and  never  leaves  the  club  till  he  has  applied  them  all. 
If  any  modern  wit  be  mentioned,  or  any  town-frolic 
spoken  of,  he  shakes  his  head  at  the  dulness  of  the 
present  age,  and  tells  us  a  story  of  Jack  Ogle. 

For  my  own  part,  I  am  esteemed  among  them, 
because  they  see  I  am  something  respected  by  others; 
though  at  the  same  time  I  understand  by  their  be- 
haviour, that  I  am  considered  by  them  as  a  man  of 
a  great  deal  of  learning,  but  no  knowledge  of  the 
world  ;  insomuch  that  the  Major  sometimes,  in  the 
height  of  his  military  pride,  calls  me  the  Philosopher: 
and  Sir  JeofFrey,  no  longer  ago  than  last  night,  upon 
a  dispute  what  day  of  the  month  it  was  then  m 
Holland,  pulled  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth,  and  cried 
— '  What  does  the  scholar  say  to  it .'' ' 

Our  club  meets  precisely  at  six  a  clock  in  the 
evening;  but  I  did  not  come  last  night  until  half  an 
hour  after  seven,  by  which  means  I  escaped  the  battle 

of 


THE  TRUMPET  CLUB.  2Z 

of  Naseby,  which  the  Major  usually  begins  at  about 
three  quarters  after  six  :  I  found  also,  that  my  good 
friend,  the  Bencher,  had  already  spent  three  of  his 
distiches  ;  and  only  waited  an  opportunity  to  hear  a 
sermon  spoken  of,  that  he  might  introduce  the  couplet 
where  '  a  stick  '  rhymes  to  '  ecclesiastic'  At  my 
entrance  into  the  room,  they  were  naming  a  red 
petticoat  and  a  cloak,  by  wliich  I  found  that  the 
Bencher  had  been  diverting  them  with  a  story  of 
Jack  Ogle. 

I  had  no  sooner  taken  my  seat,  but  Sir  JeofFrcy.  to 
shew  his  good-will  towards  me,  gave  me  a  pipe  of  his 
own  tobacco,  and  stirred  up  the  fire.  1  look  upon  it 
as  a  point  of  morality,  to  be  obliged  by  those  who 
endeavour  to  oblige  me  ;  and  therel'ore,  in  requital 
for  his  kindness,  and  to  set  the  conversation  a-goino', 
I  took  the  best  occasion  I  could  to  put  Inm  upon 
telhng  us  the  story  of  old  Gantlett,  which  he  always 
does  with  very  particular  concern.  He  traced  up  his 
descent  on  both  sides  for  several  generations,  de- 
scribing his  diet  and  manner  of  life,  with  his  several 
battles,  and  particularly  that  m  wiiich  he  fell.  This 
Gantlett  was  a  game  cock,  upon  whose  head  the 
kniglit,  in  his  youth,  had  won  five  hundred  pounds, 
and  lobt  two  thousand.     This  naturally  set  the  Major 

upon 


22  THE  TRUMPET  CLUB. 

upon  the  account  of  Edge-hill  fight,  and  ended  in  a 
duel  of  Jack  Ogle's. 

Old  Reptile  was  extremely  attentive  to  all  that  was 
said,  though  it  was  the  same  he  had  heard  every 
night  for  these  twenty  years ;  and  upon  all  occasions 
•winked  upon  his  nephew  to  mind  what  passed. 

This  may  suffice  to  give  the  world  a  taste  of  our 
innocent  conversation,  which  we  spun  out  until  about 
ten  of  the  clock,  when  my  maid  came  with  a  lanthorn 
to  light  me  home.  I  could  not  but  reflect  with 
myself,  as  I  was  going  out,  upon  the  talkative 
humour  of  old  men,  and  the  little  figure  which  that 
part  of  life  makes  in  one  who  cannot  employ  his 
natural  propensity  in  discourses  which  would  make 
him  venerable.  I  must  own,  it  makes  me  very 
melancholy  in  company,  when  I  hear  a  young  man 
begin  a  story  ;  and  have  often  observed,  that  one  of 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  long  in  a  man  of  five-and- 
twenty,  gathers  circumstances  every  time  he  tells 
it,  until  it  grows  into  a  long  Canterbury  tale  of  two 
hours  by  that  time  he  is  threescore. 

The  only  way  of  avoiding  such  a  trifling  and 
frivolous  old  age  is,  to  lay  up  in  our  way  to  it  such 
stores  of  knowledge  and  observations,  as  may  make 
us  useful  and  agreeable  in  our  declining  years.     The 

mind 


THE  TRUMPET  CLUB.  25 

mind  of  man  in  a  long  life  will  become  a  magazine 
of  wisdom  or  folly,  and  will  consequently  discharge 
itself  in  something  impertinent  or  improving.  For 
which  reason,  as  there  is  nothing  more  ridiculous 
than  an  old  trifling  story-teller,  so  there  is  nothing 
more  venerable,  than  one  who  has  turned  his  experi- 
ence to  the  entertainment  and  advantage  of  mankind. 

In  short,  we,  who  are  in  the  last  stage  of  life,  and 
are  apt  to  indulge  ourselves  in  talk,  ought  to  consider, 
if  what  we  speak  be  worth  being  heard,  and  endea- 
vour to  make  our  discourse  like  that  of  Nestor,  which 
Homer  compares  to  the  flowing  of  honey  for  its 
sweetness. 

I  am  afraid  I  shall  be  thought  guilty  of  this  excess 
I  am  speaking  of,  when  I  cannot  conclude  without 
observing,  that  Milton  certainly  thought  of  this 
passage  in  Homer,  when  in  his  description  of  an 
eloquent  spirit,  he  says — '  His  tongue  dropped 
'  manna.' 

[Feb,  II,  1710.] 


THE 


Tati.er]  -N     4  [Addison 

THE    POLITICAL    UPHOLSTERER. 


alicna  iicgolia  curat, 

Exciisstis  propriis.  — HoR. 


'  I  ""HERE  lived  some  years  since  within  my  neigh- 
-■-  bourhood  a  very  grave  person,  an  Upholsterer, 
■who  seemed  a  man  of  more  than  ordinary  appHcatioii 
to  business.  He  was  a  very  early  riser,  and  was 
often  abroad  two  or  three  hours  before  any  of  his 
neighbours.  He  had  a  particular  carefulness  in  the 
Initting  of  his  brows,  and  a  kind  of  impatience  in 
all  his  motions,  that  plainly  discovered  he  was  always 
intent  on  matters  of  importance.  Upon  my  enquiry 
into  his  life  and  conversation,  I  found  him  to  be  the 
greatest  newsmonger  in  our  quarter  ;  that  he  rose 
before  day  to  read  the  Postman  ;  and  that  he  would 
take  two  or  three  turns  to  the  other  end  of  the  town 
before  his  neighbours  were  up,  to  see  if  there  were 

any 


THE  POLITICAL   UPHOLSTERER,        25 

any  Dutch  mails  come  in.  He  had  a  wife  and  several 
children  ;  but  was  much  more  inquisitive  to  know 
what  passed  in  Poland  than  in  his  own  family,  and 
was  in  greater  pain  and  anxiety  of  mind  tor  Km-; 
Augustus's  welfare  than  that  of  his  nearest  relations. 
He  looked  extremely  thin  in  a  dearth  of  news,  and 
never  enjoyed  himself  in  a  westerly  wind.  This 
indei'atigable  kind  of  life  was  the  ruin  of  his  shop; 
for  about  the  time  that  his  favourite  prince  left  the 
crown  of  Poland,  he  broke  and  disappeared. 

This  man  and  his  affairs  had  been  long  out  of  my 
mind,  till  about  three  days  ago,  as  I  was  walking  in 
St.  James's  Park,  I  heard  somebody  at  a  distance 
hemming  after  nii» :  and  who  should  it  be  but  my 
old  neighbour  the  Upholsterer  ?  I  saw  he  was 
reduced  to  extreme  poverty,  by  certain  shabby  super- 
fluities in  his  dress  :  for  notwithstanding  that  it  was 
a  ver}'  sultry  day  for  the  time  of  the  year,  he  wore 
a  loose  greatcoat  and  a  muff,  with  a  long  campaign 
wig  out  of  curl ;  to  which  he  had  added  the  orna- 
ment of  a  pair  of  black  garters  buckled  under  the 
knee.  Upon  his  coming  up  to  me,  I  was  going  to 
enquire  into  his  present  circumstances  ;  but  was  pre- 
vented by  his  asking  me,  with  a  whisper,  Whether 
the  last  letters  brought  any  accounts  that  one  might 

rely 


26         THE  POLITICAL  UPHOLSTERER. 

rely  upon  from  Bender?  I  rold  him,  None  tliat  I 
heard  of;  and  asked  him,  whether  he  had  yet  married 
his  eldest  daughter?  He  told  me,  No.  '  But  pray,' 
says  he,  '  tell  me  sincerel)',  what  are  your  thoughts 
'  of  the  King  of  Sweden?'  For  though  his  wife 
and  children  were  starving,  I  found  his  chief  concern 
at  present  was  for  this  great  monarch.  I  told  him, 
that  I  looked  upon  him  as  one  of  the  first  heroes  of 
the  age.  '  But  pray,'  says  he,  '  do  you  think  there 
'  is  any  thing  in  the  story  of  his  wound  ? '  And 
finding  me  surprized  at  the  question — '  Nay,'  says 
he,  '  I  only  propose  it  to  you.'  1  answered,  that  I 
thought  there  was  no  reason  to  doubt  of  it.  '  But 
'  why  in  the  heel,'  says  he,  '  more,than  any  other  part 
'  of  the  body?' — 'Because,'  said  I,  'the  bullet  chanced 
'  to  light  there.' 

This  extraordinary  dialogue  was  no  sooner  ended, 
but  he  began  to  launch  out  into  a  long  dissertation 
upon  the  affairs  of  the  North  ;  and  after  having  spent 
some  time  on  them,  he  told  me  he  was  in  great  per- 
plexity how  to  reconcile  the  Supplement  with  the 
English  Post,  and  had  been  just  now  examining 
what  the  other  papers  say  upon  the  same  subject. 
'The  Daily  Courant,'  says  he,  'has  these  words: 
"  We    have  advices   from  very  good  hands,   th-it  a 

"  certain 


THE  POLITICAL  UPHOLSTERER.         27 

"  certain  prince  has  some  matters  of  great  importance 
"  under  consideration."  This  is  very  mysterious; 
'  but  the  Post-hoy  leaves  us  more  in  the  dark,  for  he 
'  tells  us  "  That  there  are  private  intimations  of 
"  measures  taken  by  a  certain  prince,  which  time  will 
"  bring    to    light."      Now   the    Postman,'   says   he, 

*  who  uses  to  be  very  clear,  refers  to  the  same  news 
'  in  these  words  :  "  The  late  conduct  of  a  certain 
"  prince  affords  great  matter  of  speculation."  This 
'  certain  prince,'  says  the  Upholsterer,  '  whom  they 

*  are  all  so  cautious  of  naming,   I  take  to  be  .' 

Upon  which,  though  there  was  nobody  near  us,  he 
whispered  something  in  my  ear,  which  I  did  not 
hear,  or  think  worth  my  while  to  make  him  repeat. 

We  were  now  got  to  the  upper  end  of  the  Mall, 
where  were  three  or  four  very  odd  fellows  sitting 
together  upon  the  bench.  These  I  found  were  all 
of  them  politicians,  who  used  to  sun  themselves  in 
that  place  every  day  about  dinner-time.  Observing 
them  to  be  curiosities  in  their  kind,  and  my  friend's 
acquaintance,  I  sat  down  among  them. 

The  chief  politician  of  the  bench  was  a  great 
asserter  of  paradoxes.  He  told  us,  with  a  seeming 
concern.  That  by  some  news  he  had  lately  read  from 
Muscovy,  It  appeared  to  him  that  there  wa,^  a  storm 

.crathi-rin^ 


28         THE  POLITICAL  UPHOLSTERER. 

gathering  m  the  Black  Sea,  which  might  in  time  do 
hurt  to  the  naval  forces  of  this  nation.  To  this  he 
added,  That  for  his  part,  he  could  not  wish  to  see  the 
Turk  driven  out  of  Europe,  which  he  beheved  could 
not  but  be  prejudicial  to  our  woollen  manufacture.  He 
then  told  us,  That  he  looked  upon  those  extraordinary 
revolutions  which  had  lately  happened  in  those  parts 
of  the  world,  to  have  risen  chiefly  from  two  persons 
who  were  not  much  talked  of;  'And  those,'  says  he, 
'are  Prince  MenzikofF,  and  the  Duchess  of  Mirandola.' 
He  backed  his  assertions  with  so  many  broken  hints, 
and  such  a  show  of  depth  and  wisdom,  that  we  gave 
ourselves  up  to  his  opinions. 

The  discourse  at  length  fell  upon  a  point  which 
seldom  escapes  a  knot  of  true-born  Englishmen, 
Whether,  in  case  of  a  religious  war,  the  Protestants 
would  not  be  too  strong  for  the  Papists  ?  This  we 
unanimously  determined  on  the  Protestant  side. 
One  who  sat  on  mv  right-hand,  and,  as  I  found  by 
his  discourse,  had  been  in  the  West  Indies,  assured 
us.  That  it  would  be  a  verv  easy  matter  for  the 
Protestants  to  beat  the  Pope  at  sea  ;  and  added,  That 
whenever  such  a  war  does  break  out,  it  must  turn  to 
the  good  of  the  Leeward  Islands.  Upon  this,  one 
who  sat  at  the  end  of  the  bench,  and,  as  I  afterwards 

found 


THE  POLITICAL  UPHOLSTERER.         29 

found,  was  the  geographer  of  the  company,  said, 
that  in  case  the  Papists  should  drive  the  Protestants 
from  these  parts  of  Europe,  wlien  the  worst  came  to 
the  worst,  it  would  be  impossible  to  beat  them  out 
of  Norway  and  Greenland,  provided  the  Northern 
crowns  hold  together,  and  the  Czar  of  Muscovy  stand 
neuter. 

He  further  told  us,  for  our  comfort,  that  there  were 
vast  tracts  of  land  about  the  Pole,  inhabited  neither 
by  Protestants  nor  Papists,  and  of  greater  extent 
than  all  the  Roman  Catholic  dominions  in  Europe. 

When  we  had  fully  discussed  this  point,  my  friend 
the  Upholsterer  began  to  exert  himself  upon  the 
present  negociations  of  peace  ;  in  which  he  deposed 
princes,  settled  the  bounds  of  kingdoms,  and  balanced 
the  power  of  Europe,  with  great  justice  and  mipar- 
tiality. 

I  at  length  took  my  leave  of  the  company,  and  was 
going  away  ;  but  had  Jiot  gone  thirty  yards,  before 
the  Upholsterer  hemmed  again  after  me.  Upon  his 
advancing  towards  me,  with  a  whisper,  I  expected  to 
hear  some  secret  piece  of  news,  which  he  had  not 
thought  fit  to  communicate  to  the  bench;  but  instead 
of  that,  he  desired  me  in  my  ear  to  lend  him  half  a 
crown.     In  compassion  to  so  needy  a  statesman,  and 

to 


30         THE  POLITICAL  LH'HOLSTERER 

to  dissipate  the  confusion  I  found  he  was  in,  I  to'.d 
him,  if  he  pleased,  I  would  give  him  five  shillings,  to 
receive  five  pounds  of  him  when  the  Great  Turk  was 
driven  out  of  Constantinople ;  which  he  very  readily 
accepted,  but  not  before  he  had  laid  down  to  me  the 
impossibility  of  such  an  event,  as  the  affairs  of  Europe 
now  stand. 

This  paper  I  design  for  the  particular  benefit  of 
those  worthy  citizens  who  live  more  in  a  coffee-house 
than  in  their  shops,  and  whose  thoughts  are  so  taken 
up  with  the  affairs  of  the  Allies,  that  they  forget  their 
customers. 

[April  6,  1710.] 


TOM 


Tatler]  N     5  [Addison 

TOM   FOLIO. 


Faciunt  n,r  iiitelligeiido,  ut  nihil  iiilelligaiit. 

— Ter. 


''yOM  FOLIO  is  .1  broker  in  learning,  employed 
to  get  together  good  editions,  and  stock  the 
libraries  of  great  men.  There  is  not  a  sale  of  books 
begins  till  Tom  Folio  is  seen  at  the  door.  There  is 
not  an  auction  where  his  name  is  not  heard,  and  that 
too  in  the  very  nick  of  time,  in  the  critical  moment, 
before  the  last  decisive  stroke  of  the  hammer.  There 
is  not  a  subscription  goes  forward,  in  which  Tom  is 
not  privv  to  the  first  rough  draught  of  the  proposals ; 
nor  a  catalogue  printed,  that  doth  not  come  to  him 
wet  from  the  press.  He  is  an  universal  scholar,  so 
far  as  the  title-page  of  all  authors,  knows  the  manu- 
scripts in  which  they  were  discovered,  the  editions 
through  which  they  have  passed,  with  the  praises  or 

censures 


32 


TOM  FOLIO. 


censures  which  they  have  received  from  the  several 
members  of  the  learned  world.  He  has  a  greater 
esteem  for  Aldus  and  Elzevir,  than  for  Virgil  and 
Horace.  If  you  talk  of  Herodotus,  he  breaks  out 
into  a  panegyric  upon  Harry  Stephens.  He  thinks 
lie  gives  you  an  account  of  an  author  when  he  tells 
you  the  subject  he  treats  of,  the  name  of  the  editor, 
and  the  year  in  which  it  svas  printed.  Or  if  you 
draw  him  into  further  particulars,  he  cries  up  the 
goodness  of  the  paper,  e\tols  the  diligence  of  the 
corrector,  and  is  transported  with  the  beauty  of  the 
letter.  This  he  looks  upon  to  be  sound  learning 
and  substantial  criticism.  As  for  those  who  talk  of 
the  fineness  of  style,  and  the  justness  of  thought,  or 
describe  the  brightness  of  any  particular  passages; 
nay,  though  they  themselves  write  in  the  genius  and 
spirit  of  the  author  they  admire,  Tom  looks  upon 
them  as  men  of  superficial  learning,  and  flashy  parts. 
I  had  yesterday  morning  a  visit  from  this  learned 
idiot  (for  that  is  the  light  in  which  I  consider  every 
pedant);  when  I  discovered  in  him  some  little  touches 
of  the  coxcomb,  which  I  had  not  before  observed. 
Being  very  full  of  the  figure  which  he  makes  in  the 
republic  of  letters,  and  wonderfully  satisfied  with  his 
great  stock  of  knowledge,  he  gave  me  broad  intima- 
tions 


TOM  FOLIO.  33 

tions,  that  he  did  not  believe  in  all  points  as  his  fore- 
fathers had  done.  He  then  communicated  to  me  a 
tliought  of  a  certain  author  upon  a  passage  of  \'irgirs 
account  of  the  dead,  which  I  made  the  sub'tct  of  a 
]atc  paper.  This  thought  hath  tal<en  very  much 
among  men  of  Tom's  pitch  and  understanding, 
ihougli  universally  exploded  by  all  that  know  how 
to  construe  Virgil,  or  have  any  relish  of  antiquity. 
Not  to  trouble  my  reader  with  it,  I  found  upon 
the  whole,  that  Tom  did  not  believe  a  future  state 
of  rewards  and  puiiisliments,  because  .tneas,  at 
his  leaving  the  empire  of  the  dead,  passed  through 
the  Gate  of  Ivory,  and  not  througli  that  of  Horn. 
Knowing  that  Tom  had  not  sense  enough  to  give  up 
an  opinion  which  he  had  once  received,  that  he  might 
avoid  wrangling,  I  told  him,  that  Virgil  possibly  had 
his  oversights  as  well  as  another  author.  '  Ah  !  Mr. 
'  Bickerstaff,'  says  he,  '  you  would  have  another 
'  opinion  of  him,  if  you  would  read  him  in  Daniel 
'  Heinsius's  edition.  I  have  perused  him  myself 
'  several  times  in  that  edition,'  continued  he;  'and 
'  after  the  strictest  and  most  malicious  examination, 
'  could  find  but  two  faults  in  him  ;  one  of  them  is 
'  111  the  .■Eneids,  where  there  are  two  commas  instead 
•  ot  a  parenthesis  ;  and  another  in  the  third  Georgic, 

'  wheie 


34  TOM  FOLIO. 

'  where  \-ou  may  find  a  semicolon  turned  upside 
.'  down.' — '  Perhaps,'  said  I,   '  these  were  not  Virgil's 

*  faults,  but  those  of  the  transcriber.' — '  1  do  not 
'  design  it,'  says  Tom,  '  as  a  reflection  on  Virgil  :  on 
'  the  contrary,  I  know  that  all  the  manuscripts  re- 

*  claim  against  such  a  punctuation.      Oh  !  Mr.  Bicker- 

*  staff,'  says  he,  '  what  would  a  man  give  to  see  one 
.'  simile  of  Virgil  writ  in  his  own  hand  !  '  I  asked 
liim  which  was  the  simile  he  meant ;  hut  was  answered 
—  'Any  simile  in  Virgil.'  He  then  told  me  all  the 
secret  history  in  the  commonwealth  of  learning;  of 
modern  pieces  that  had  the  names  of  ancient  authors 
annexed  to  them ;  of  all  the  books  that  were  now 
writing  or  printing  in  the  several  parts  of  Europe ;  of 
many  amendments  which  are  made,  and  not  yet  pub- 
lished ;  and  a  thousand  other  particulars,  which  I  would 
not  have  my  memory  burdened  with  for  a  Vatican. 

At  length,  being  fully  persuaded  that  I  thoroughly 
admired  him,  and  looked  upon  him  as  a  prodigy  of 
learning,  he  took  his  leave.  I  know  several  of  Tom's 
class  who  are  professed  admirers  of  Tasso,  without 
understanding  a  word  of  Italian  :  and  one  in  particu- 
lar, that  carries  a  Pastor  I'ido  in  his  pocket,  in  which 
I  am  sure  he  is  acquainted  with  no  other  beauty  but 
the  clearness  of  the  character. 

There 


TOM  FOLIO.  35 

Tliere  is  another  kind  of  pedant,  who,  with  all 
Tom  Folio's  impertinences,  hath  greater  superstriii:- 
tures  and  embellishments  of  Greek  and  Latin ;  and  is 
still  more  insupportable  than  the  other,  in  the  same 
degree  as  he  is  more  learned.  Of  this  kind  very  often 
are  editors,  comn-entators,  interpreters,  scholiasts,  and 
critics  ;  and,  in  short,  all  men  of  deep  learning  with- 
out conmion  sense.  These  persons  set  a  greater  value 
on  themselves  fpr  having  found  out  the  meaning  of  a 
passage  in  Greek,  than  upon  the  author  for  having 
written  it ;  nay,  will  allow  the  passage  itself  not  to 
have  any  beauty  in  it,  at  the  same  time  that  they 
would  be  considered  as  the  greatest  men  of  the  age, 
for  having  interpreted  it.  They  will  look  with  con- 
tempt on  the  most  beautiful  poems  that  have  been 
composed  by  any  of  their  contemporaries ;  but  will 
lock  themselves  up  in  their  studies  for  a  twelvemonth 
together,  to  correct,  publish,  and  expound,  such  trifles 
of  antiquity,  as  a  modern  author  would  be  contemned 
for.  Men  of  the  strictest  morals,  severest  lives,  and 
the  gravest  professions,  wili  write  volumes  upon  an 
idle  sonnet,  that  is  originally  in  Greek  or  Latin  ;  give 
editions  of  the  most  immoral  authors ;  and  spin  out 
whole  pages  upon  the  various  readings  of  a  lewd  ex- 
piession.     All  th.it  can  be  said  in  extuse  lor  them  is, 

I'hat 


36  TOM  FOLIO. 

That  their  works  sufficiently  shew  they  have  no  taste 
of  their  authors ;  and  that  what  they  do  in  this  kind  is 
out  of  their  great  learning,  and  not  out  of  any  levity 
or  lasciviousness  of  temper. 

A  pedant  of  this  nature  is  wonderfully  well  de- 
scribed in  six  lines  of  Boileau,  with  which  I  shall 
conclude  his  character. 


Un  pedant  enyvre  de  sa  vaine  science, 
Tout  herisse  de  Grec,  tout  bouffi  d'arrogance, 
Et  qui  de  milie  auteurs  reteniis  mot  par  mut, 
Dans  sa  tete  entassez  n'a  souvent  fait  qu'un  sot, 
Croit  qu'un  livre  fait  tout,  et  que  sans  Aristote 
La  raison  iie  voit  goutte,  et  le  bon  sens  radote. 


[April  13,  1 710.] 


NED 


Tatler]  N      6  [Addison 

NED   SOFTLY  THE  POET. 


Idem  iiificcto  est  inficetior  nue, 

Simitl  pocmata  atti^it ;   neque  idem  iiitqiiam 

^Hqiie  est  hcaliis,  ac  pocma  qnum  iciilnt : 

Tain  oaiuict  in  se,  lanique  se  ipse  mirati/r. 

Khninini  idem  oinnes  fallimiir ;   neque  est  quisquain 

Qiiein  uon  in  aliqua  re  videie  Sujfenuni 

Pass  is ■  — Catul. 


T  YESTERDAY  came  hither  about  two  hours 
■*-  before  the  company  generally  make  their 
appearance,  with  a  design  to  read  over  all  the  news- 
papers;  but  upon  my  sitting  down,  I  was  accosted 
by  Ned  Softly,  who  saw  me  from  a  corner  in  the 
other  end  of  the  room,  where  I  found  he  had  been 
writing  something.  '  Mr.  BickerstafT,'  says  he,  '  I 
'  observe  by  a  late  paper  of  yours,  that  you  and  I 
'  are  just  of  a  humour;  for  you  must  know,  of  all 
'  impertinences,  there  is  nothing  which  1  so  much 

'  hate 


38  NED  SOFTLY  THE  POET. 

'  hate  as  news.  1  never  read  a  gazette  in  my  life  ; 
'  and  never  trouble  mv  head  about  our  armies, 
'  ■whether  they  win  or  lose  ;  or  in  vvliat  part  of  the 
*  world  they  lie  encamped.'  Without  giving  me  time 
to  reply,  he  drew  a  paper  o(  verses  out  of  his  pocket, 
telhng  me.  That  he  had  something  which  would 
entertain  me  more  agreeably;  and  that  he  would 
desire  my  judgment  upon  every  line,  for  that  we 
had  time  enough  before  us  until  the  company 
came  in. 

Ned  Softly  is  a  very  pretty  poet,  and  a  great  admirer 
of  easy  lines.  Waller  is  his  favourite  ;  and  as  that 
admirable  writer  has  the  best  and  worst  verses  of 
any  among  our  great  English  poets,  Ned  Softly  has 
got  all  the  bad  ones  without  book ;  which  he 
repeats  upon  occasion,  to  shew  his  reading,  and 
garnish  his  conversation.  Ned  is  indeed  a  true 
English  reader,  incapable  of  relishing  the  great  and 
masterly  strokes  of  this  art ;  but  wonderfully  pleased 
■with  the  little  Gothic  ornaments  of  epigrammatical 
conceits,  turns,  points,  and  quibbles,  which  are  so 
frequent  in  the  most  admired  of  our  English  poets, 
and  practised  by  those  who  want  genius  and  strength 
to  represent,  after  the  manner  of  the  ancients,  sim- 
plicity in  its  natural  beauty  and  perfection. 

Finding 


NED  SOFTLY  THE  POET.  39 

Finding  myself  unavoidably  engaged  in  such  a 
conversation,  I  was  resolved  to  turn  mv  pain  into  a 
pleasure,  and  to  divert  myself  as  well  as  I  could  with 
so  very  odd  a  fellow.  '  You  must  understand,'  says 
Ned,  '  that  the  sonnet  I  am  going  to  read  to  you  was 
'  written  upon  a  lady  who  shewed  me  some  verses  of 
'  her  own  making,  and  is,  perhaps,  the  best  poet  of 
'  our  age.  But  you  shall  hear  it.'  Upon  which  he 
began  to  read  as  follows  : 

TO    MIRA,    ON    HF.R    INCOMPARABLE   POEMS. 


■yirHEN  dress'd  in  laurel  wreaths  you  shine, 

And  tune  your  soft  melodious  notes, 
You  seem  a  sister  of  the  Nine, 
Or  Phoebus'  self  in  petticoats. 


I  fancy,  when  your  song  you  sing 

(Your  song  you  sing  with  so  much  art), 

Your  pen  was  pluck'd  from  Cupid's  wing  ; 
For,  ah  !  it  wounds  me  like  his  dart. 

'  Why,'  says  I,  '  this  is  a  little  nosegay  of  conceits, 
a  very  lump  of  salt  :  every  verse  hath  something  in 
it  that  piques  ;  and  then  the  Dart  in  the  last  line 
is   certainly    as   pretty    a    stmg   in    the    tail    of  an 

'  epigram 


40  NED  SOFTLY  THE  POET. 

'  epigram  (for  to  I  think  \our  critics  call  it)  as 
'  ever  entered  into  the  thought  of  a  poet.' — '  Dear 
'  Mr.  Bickerstaft,'  says  he,  shaking  me  by  the  hand, 
'  everybody  knows  vou  to  be  a  judge  of  these 
'  tilings  ;  and  to  tell  you  truly,  I  read  over  Roscom- 
'  mon's  translation  of  Horace's  Art  of  Poetry  three 
'  several  times,  before  I  sat  down  to  write  the  sonnet 
'  which  I  have  shewn  you.  But  you  shall  hear  it 
*  again,  and  pray  observe  every  line  of  it,  for  not  one 
'  of  them  shall  pass  without  your  approbation. 

When  dress'd  in  laurel  wreaths  you  shine. 

'  This  is,'  says  he,  '  when  you  have  your  garland 
'  on  ;  when  you  are  writing  verses.'  To  which  I 
replied,  '  I  know  your  meaning  :  A  metaphor  !  ' — 
'  The  same,'  said  he,  and  went  on. 

And  tune  your  soft  melodious  notes. 

'  Pray  observe  the  gliding  of  that  verse  ;  there  is 
'  scarce  a  consonant  in  it  :  I  took  care  to  make  it  run 
'  upon  liquids.  Give  me  your  opinion  of  it.' — 
'  Truly,'  said  I,  '  I  think  it  as  good  as  the  former.' — 
'  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  you  say  so,'  says  he  ;  '  but 
'  niind  the  next  : 

You  seem  a  sister  of  the  Nine. 

'  That 


NED  SOFTLY  THE  POET.  41 

*  That  is,'  says  he,  '  vou  seem  a  sister  of  the  Muses; 

*  for,  if  you  looiv  into  nnc.ent  authors,  you  will  find  it 
'  was  their  opinion,  that  there  were  nine  of  tlieni.' — 
'  I  remember  it  very  well,'  said  I :  '  but  pray  proceed.' 

Or  Phoebus'  self  in  petticoats. 

'  Phoebus,'  says  he,  '  was  the  god  of  poetry.    These 

*  little  instances,  Mr.  ]5ickerstaft,  shew  a  geiitlenian's 
'  reading.  Then  to  take  olY  from  the  air  of  learning, 
'  which  Pho-'bus  and  the  Muses  have  given  to  this  first 
'  stanza,  you  may  observe,  how  it  falls,  all  of  a  sudden 

*  into  the  familiar — '•  in  petticoats  !  "  ' 

Or  Phoebus'  self  in  petticoats. 

•Let    us   now,'    says    I,    'enter   upon   the    second 

*  stanza;  I  find  the  first  line  is  still  a  continuation  of 
'  the  metaphor.' 

I  fancy,  when  your  song  you  sing. 

'  It  is  very  right,'  says  he  ;  '  but  pray  observe  the 
'  turn  of  words  in  those  two  lines.  I  was  a  whole 
'  liour  in  adjusting  of  them,  and  have  still  a  doubt 
'  upon  me  whether,  m  the  second   line  it  should  be 

*  — "  Your  song   you   sing,"   or,    "  You   sing   your 

*  "  song."     Vou  shall  hear  them  both  : — 


I 


42  NED  SOFTLY  THE  POET. 


'or, 


I  fancy,  when  your  song  yoti  sing 
(Your  song  you  sing  with  s  >  much  art)  ; 


I  fancy  when  your  song  you  sing 

(You  sing  your  song  with  so  much  art). 


'  Truly,'  said  1,  '  the  turn  is  so  natural  eitlier  wav. 
'  that  you  have  made  me  ahnost  giddy  ^\  ith  it.'^ 
*  Dear  Sir,'  said  he,  grasping  me  by  the  hand,  '  vou 
'  have  a  great  deal  of  patience  ;  but  pray  what  do  you 
'  think  of  the  next  verse  ? — 

Your  pen  w;is  pluck'd  from  Cupid's  wing. 

'  Think  !'  says  I  ;  '  I  think  you  liave  made  Cupid 
'  look  like  a  little  goose.' — '  That  was  my  mean.ng,' 
says  he  :  'I  think  the  ridicule  is  well  enough  liit  off. 
'  But  we  come  now  to  the  last,  which  sums  up  the 
'  whole  matter. 

For,  Ah  1  it  wounds  me  like  his  dart. 

'  Pray  how  do  vou  like  that  Ah  !  doth  it  not  make 
'  a  pretty  figure  in  that  place  ?  Ah  ! — it  looks  as  if  I 
'  felt  the  dart,  and  cried  out  at  being  pricked  with  it. 

For,  Ah  !   it  wounds  me  like  Lis  dart. 

*  My  friend  Uick  Easy,'  continued  he,  '  assured  me 

'  he 


NED  SOFTLY  THE  POET.  43 

*  he  would  rather  have  written  that  Ah!  than  to  have 
'  been  the  author  of  the  .TineiJ.  He  indeed  objected, 
'  that  I  made  Mira's  pen  like  a  quill  in  one  of  the  lines, 
'  and  like  a  dart  in  the  other.  But  as  to  that ' — '  Oh  ! 
'  as  to  that,'  says  I,  '  it  is  but  supposing  Cupid  to  be 
'  like  a  porcupine,  and  his  quills  and  darts  will  be  the 
'  same  thing.'  He  was  going  to  embrace  me  for  the 
hint ;  but  half-a-dozen  critics  coming  into  the  room, 
whose  faces  he  did  not  like,  he  conveyed  the  sonnet 
into  his  pocket,  and  whispered  me  in  the  ear,  he 
would  shew  it  me  again  as  soon  as  his  man  had 
written   it  over  fair. 

[April  25,  I7I0.J 


RECOLLECTIONS 


Tati.er]  N     7  [Steele 

RECOLLECTIONS  OF   CHILDHOOD. 


Dies,  III  fallor,  adcst,  qiiein  semper  ncerhnm, 

Semper  hoiioralum,  sic  dii  voluistis,  habeho. 

-  \'lRC 


'  l^'HERE  are  those  among  manlvind,  who  can  enjoy 
-*-  no  rehsli  of  their  being,  except  the  Nvorkl  is 
maJe  acquainted  \vith  all  that  relates  to  them,  and 
think  evervthing  lost  that  passes  unobserved  ;  but 
others  find  a  solid  delight  in  stealing  by  the  crowd, 
and  modelling  their  life  after  such  a  manner,  as  is  as 
much  above  the  approbation  as  the  practice  of  the 
vulgar.  Life  being  too  short  to  give  instances  great 
enough  of  true  triendship  or  good-will,  some  sages 
have  thought  it  pious  to  preserve  a  certain  reverence 
for  the  Manes  of  their  deceased  friends ;  and  have 
\vithdrawn  themselves  from  the  rest  of  the  world 
at   certain    seasons,    to   commemorate    in    their    own 

thoujrhts 


RECOLLECTIONS   OE  CHILDHOOD.      45 

thoughts  such  of  thc:r  ncqiiainuince  \vho  have  gone 
before  them  olu  of  this  lite  ;  and  indeed,  when  we 
are  advanced  in  years,  there  is  not  a  more  pleasing 
entertainment,  than  to  recollect  in  a  gloomy  moment 
the  manv  we  have  parted  with,  thr.t  have  been  dear 
and  agreeable  to  us,  and  to  cast  a  melancholy  thought 
or  two  after  those,  with  whom,  perhaps,  we  have 
indulged  ourselves  in  whole  nights  of  mirth  and 
jollitv.  With  such  inclinations  in  my  heart  1  went 
to  my  closet  vesterday  in  the  evening,  and  resolved  to 
he  sorrowful  ;  upon  which  occasion  I  could  net  but 
look  with  disdain  upon  mvself,  that  though  all  the 
reasons  which  I  had  to  lament  the  loss  of  many  of  my 
friends  are  now  as  forcible  as  at  the  moment  of  their 
departure,  yet  did  not  my  heart  swell  with  the  same 
sorrow  which  I  felt  at  the  time  ;  but  I  could,  without 
tears,  reflect  upon  many  pleasing  adventures  I  have 
liad  with  some,  who  have  long  been  blended  with 
common  earth.  Though  it  is  by  the  benefit  of 
Nature  that  length  of  time  thus  blots  out  the  violence 
of  afflictions  ;  yet  with  tempers  too  much  given  to 
pleasure,  it  is  almost  necessary  to  revive  the  old  places 
of  grief  in  our  memory;  and  ponder  step  by  step  on 
past  life,  to  lead  the  mind  into  that  sobriety  of  thought 
which  poises  the  heart,  and  makes  it  beat  with  due 

time. 


46       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 

time,  without  bt\nj  quicl^encJ  with  desire,  or  re- 
tarded with  despair,  Ironi  its  proper  and  equal  motion. 
W'lien  we  wind  up  a  clock  that  is  out  of  order,  to 
make  it  go  well  for  the  future,  we  do  not  immediately 
set  the  hand  to  the  present  instant,  but  we  make 
it  strike  the  round  of  all  its  hours,  before  it  can 
recover  the  regularity  of  its  time.  Such,  thought  I, 
shall  be  my  method  this  evening  ;  and  since  it  is  that 
day  of  the  year  which  I  dedicate  to  the  memory  of 
such  in  another  life  as  I  much  delighted  in  when 
living,  an  hour  or  two  shall  be  sacred  to  sorrow  and 
their  memory,  while  I  run  over  all  the  melancholy 
circumstances  of  this  kind  which  have  occurred  to  me 
in  inv  whole  life. 

The  first  sense  of  sorrow  I  ever  knew  was  upon  the 
death  of  my  father,  at  which  time  I  was  not  quite  five 
years  of  age ;  but  was  rather  amazed  at  w'hat  all  the 
house  meant,  than  possessed  with  a  real  understanding 
why  nobodv  was  willing  to  plav  with  me.  I  remem- 
ber I  went  into  the  room  where  liis  body  lay,  and  my 
mother  sat  weeping  alone  by  it.  I  had  my  battledore 
in  my  hand,  and  fell  a-beating  the  coffin,  and  calling 
]\ipa;  for,  1  know  not  liow,  I  had  some  slight  idei 
that  he  was  locked  up  there.  My  mother  catched  me 
iu  her  arms,  and,  transported  beyond  all  patience  of  the  1 

silent  "] 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 


47 


siltiu  grief  she  was  before  in,  she  ahiiost  smothered 
iiie  111  her  embrace;  and  told  me  in  a  flood  ot  tears, 
Papa  could  not  hear  nic,  and  would  play  with  me  no 
more,  for  they  were  going  to  put  him  underground, 
where  he  could  never  come  to  us  again.  She  was 
a  very  beautiful  woman,  of  a  noble  spirit,  and  there 
was  a'  dignity  in  her  grief  amidst  all  the  wildness 
of  her  transport;  which,  methouglit,  struck  me  with 
an  instinct  of  sorrow,  that  before  I  was  sensible  of 
what  it  was  to  grieve,  seized  my  very  soul,  and  has 
made  pity  the  weakness  of  my  heart  ever  since.  The 
mind  in  infancy  is,  methinks,  hke  the  body  in  em- 
brvo;  and  receives  impressions  so  forcible,  that  they 
are  as  hard  to  be  removed  by  reason,  as  any  mark, 
with  which  a  child  is  born,  is  to  be  taken  away  by 
any  future  application.  Hence  it  is,  that  good-nature 
in  me  is  no  merit  ;  but  having  been  so  frequently 
overwhelmed  with  her  tears  before  I  knew  the  cause 
of  any  affliction,  or  could  draw  defences  from  my  own 
judgment,  I  imbibed  commiseration,  remorse,  and  an 
unmanly  gentleness  of  mind,  which  has  since  ensnared 
nie  into  ten  thousand  calamities  ;  and  from  whence  I 
can  reap  no  advantage,  except  it  be,  that,  in  such  a 
humour  as  I  am  now  in,  1  can  the  better  mdalcre 
myself  in  the  softnesses  of  humanity,  and  enjoy  that 

sweet 


48       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 

sweet   anxiety  that  arises  from  the  memory   of  past 
afflictions. 

We,  that  are  very  old,  are  better  able  to  remember 
things  which  beftl  us  in  our  distant  youth,  than  the 
passages  of  later  days.  For  this  reason  it  is,  that  the 
companions  of  my  strong  and  vigorous  years  present 
themselves  more  immediately  to  me  m  this  office  of 
sorrow.  Untimely  and  unhappy  deaths  are  what  we 
are  most  apt  to  lament ;  so  little  are  we  able  to  make  it 
indifferent  when  a  thing  happens,  though  we  know  it 
mu.st  happen.  Thus  we  groan  under  life,  and  bewail 
those  who  are  relieved  from  it.  Every  object  that 
returns  to  our  imagination  raises  difTereiit  passions, 
according  to  the  circumstance  of  their  departure. 
Who  can  have  lived  in  an  army,  and  in  a  serious  liour 
reflect  upon  the  many  gay  and  agreeable  men  that 
might  long  have  fiounsjied  in  the  arts  of  peace,  and  not 
join  with  the  imprecations  of  the  fatherless  and  widow 
on  the  tyrant  to  whose  ambition  they  fell  sacrifices? 
But  gallant  men,  wlio  are  cut  otT  by  the  sword, 
move  rather  our  venerat  on  than  our  pity;  and  we 
gather  relief  enough  from  their  own  contempt  of 
death,  to  make  it  no  evil,  whicli  was  approached 
with  so  much  cheerfulness,  and  attended  with  so  much 
honour.     But  when  we  turn  our  thoughts  from  the 

frreat 


REC.OLLECTIOXS  OF  CHILDHOOD.       49 

great  parts  of  life  011  such  occasions,  and  instead  of 
lamenting  those  who  stood  ready  to  give  death  to 
those  from  whom  they  had  the  fortune  to  receive  it ; 
I  say,  when  we  let  our  tlioughts  wander  from  such 
noble  objects,  and  consider  the  liavoc  which  is  made 
among  the  tender  and  the  innocent,  pity  enters  with 
an  unmixed  softness,  and  possesses  all  our  souls  at 
once. 

Here  (were  there  words  to  express  such  sentiments 
with  proper  tenderness)  I  should  record  the  beauty, 
innocence,  and  untimely  death,  of  the  first  object  my 
eyes  ever  beheld  with  love.  The  beauteous  virgin  ! 
How  ignorantly  did  she  charm,  how  carelessly  excel? 
Oh  Death,  thou  hast  right  to  the  bold,  to  the  ambi- 
tious, to  the  high.,  and  to  the  haughty  ;  but  why  this 
cruelty  to  the  humble,  to  the  meek,  to  the  undiscern- 
ing,  to  the  thoughtless?  Nor  age,  nor  busniess,  nor 
distress,  can  erase  the  dear  image  from  my  imagina- 
tion. In  the  same  week,  I  saw  her  dressed  for  a  ball, 
and  in  a  shroud.  How  ill  did  the  habit  of  Death 
become  the  pretty  trifler?     I  still  behold  tlie  smiling 

earth A  large  train  of  disasters  were  coming  on  to 

my  memory,  when  my  ser^'ant  knocked  at  my  closet- 
door,  and  interrupted  me  with  a  letter,  attended  with 
a  hamper  of  wiue,  of  the  same  sort  with  that  which 

is 


50      RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 

is  to  be  put  to  sale,  on  Thursday  next,  at  Garraway's 
Coffee-house.  Upon  the  receipt  of  it,  I  sent  for  three 
of  my  friends.  We  are  so  intimate,  that  we  can  be 
company  in  whatever  state  of  mind  we  meet,  and  can 
entertain  each  other  without  expecting  always  to  re- 
joice. The  wine  we  found  to  be  generous  and  warm- 
ing, hut  with  such  an  heat  as  moved  us  rather  to  be 
cheerful  than  frolicsome.  It  revived  the  spirits,  with- 
out firing  the  blood.  We  commended  it  until  two  of 
the  clock  this  mornina  ;  and  having  to-day  met  a 
little  before  dinner,  we  found,  that  though  we  drank 
two  bottles  a  man,  we  had  much  more  reason  to 
recollect  than  lorget  what  had  passed  the  night  before, 

[June  6,  1710.] 


ADVENTURES 


Tatler]  -N     8  [Addison 

ADVENTURES  OF  A   SHILLING. 


Per  varios  casus,  per  lot  discrimina  rerum, 
Teiiiliiniis  

— ViRG. 


T  WAS  last  night  visited  by  a  friend  of  mine  ^vllo 
■*-  has  an  inexliaustible  fund  of  discourse,  and 
never  fails  to  entertain  his  company  with  a  variety  of 
thoughts  and  hints  that  are  altogether  new  and  un- 
connnon.  Whether  it  were  in  complaisance  to  my 
way  of  living,  or  his  real  opinion,  he  advanced  the 
following  paradox,  That  it  required  much  greater 
talents  to  fill  up  and  become  a  retired  life,  than  a  life 
of  business.  Upon  this  occasion  he  rallied  very 
agreeably  the  busy  men  of  the  age,  who  only  valued 
themselves  for  being  in  motion,  and  passing  through 
a  series  of  trifling  and  insignificant  actions.  In  the 
heat  of  his  discourse,  seeing  a  piece  of  money  lying 


52  ADVEXTURES  OF  A  SHILLING. 

on  iiiv  table  —  '  I  defv,'  says  he,  '  any  of  tliese  active 
'  persons  to  produce  half  the  adventurts  that  this 
'  twelvepenny-piece  has  been  engaged  in,  were  it 
'  possible  for  him  to  give  us  an  account  of  his 
'  life.' 

My  friend's  talk  made  so  odd  an  impression  upon 
niy  mind,  that  soon  after  I  was  a-bed  I  fell  insensibly 
into  a  most  unaccountable  reverie,  that  had  neither 
moral  nor  design  in  it,  and  cannot  be  so  properly 
called  a  dream  as  a  delirium. 

Methought  that  the  Shilling  that  lay  upon  the  table 
reared  itself  upon  its  edge,  and  turning  the  face  to- 
wards me,  opened  its  mouth,  and  in  a  soft  silver 
sound  gave  me  the  following  account  of  his  life  and 
adventures. 

'  I  was  born,'  says  he,  '  on  the  side  of  a  mountain, 
'  near  a  little  village  of  Peru,  and  made  a  voyage  to 
'  England  in  an  ingot,  under  the  convoy  ot  Sir 
'  Francis  Drake.  I  was,  soon  after  my  arrival,  taken 
'  out  of  my  Indian  habit,  refined,  naturalized,  and  put 
'  into  the  British  mode,  with  the  face  of  Queen  Eliza- 
'  beth  on  one  side,  and  the  arms  of  the  country  on  the 
'  other.  Being  thus  equipped,  I  found  in  me  a  won- 
'  derful  inclination  to  ramble,  and  visit  all  parts  of  the 
'  ncwworld  into  which  1  v.as  brought.  The  people  very 

'  much 


ADVENTURES  OF  A  SHILLIXG.  5} 

much  favoured  mv  natural  disposition,  and  shifted 
me  so  fast  from  hand  to  hand,  that  before  I  was  five 
years  old,  I  had  travelled  into  almojt  every  corner  of 
the  nation.  But  in  the  beginning  of  my  sixth  year, 
to  my  unspeakable  grief,  I  fell  into  the  hands  of  a 
miserable  old  fellow,  who  clapped  me  into  an  iron 
chest,  where  I  found  five  lumdred  more  of  my  own 
quality,  wise  lay  under  the  same  confinement.  The 
only  relief  we  had,  was  to  he  taken  out  and  counted 
over  in  the  fresh  air  every  morning  and  evening. 
After  an  imprisonment  of  several  years,  we  heard 
somebody  knocking  at  our  chest,  and  breaking  it 
open  with  an  hammer.  This  we  found  was  the  old 
man's  heir,  who,  as  his  father  lay  a-dying,  was  so 
good  as  to  come  to  our  release  :  he  separated  us  that 
very  day.  What  was  the  fate  of  my  companions  I 
know  not  :  as  for  myself,  I  was  sent  to  the  apothe- 
cary's shop  ior  a  pint  ot  sack.  The  apothecary  gave 
me  to  an  herb-woman,  the  herb-woman  to  a  butcher, 
the  butcher  to  a  brewer,  and  the  brewer  to  his  wife, 
who  made  a  present  of  me  to  a  Non-conformist 
preacher.  After  this  manner  I  made  my  way 
merrily  through  the  world  ;  for,  as  I  told  you 
before,  we  Shillings  love  nothing  so  much  as 
travelling.       I    sometimes    fetched    in    a    shoulder 

'of 


54         ADVENTURES  OF  A  SHILLING. 

'  of  mutton,  sometimes  a  play-book,  and  often  had 
'  the  satisfaction  to  treat  a  Templar  at  a  twelve-penny 
'  ordinary,  or  carry  him  with  three  friends  to  West- 
'  minster  Hall. 

'  In  the  midst  of  this  pleasant  progress,  which  I 

•  made  from  place  to  place,  I  was  arrested  by  a  super- 
'  stitious  old  woman,  who  shut  me  up  in  a  greasy 
'  purse,  in  pursuance  of  a  foolish  saying,  that  while 
'  she  kept  a  Queen  Elizabeth's  Shilling  about  her, 
'  she  should  never  be  without  money.  I  continued 
'  here  a  close  prisoner  for  many  months,  until  at  last 
'  I  was  exchanged  for  eight-and-forty  farthings. 

'  I  thus  rambled  from  pocket  to  pocket  until  the 
'  beginning  of  the  civil  wars,  when,  to  my  shame  be 
'  it  spoken,  I  was  employed  in  raising  soldiers  against 
'  the  king;  for  being  of  a  very  tempting  breadth,  a 
'  Serjeant  made  use  of  me  to  inveigle  country  fellows, 
'  and  list  them  in  the  service  of  the  parliament. 

'  As  soon  as  he  had  made  one  man"  sure,  his  way 
'  was  to  oblige  him  to  take  a  Shilling  of  a  more 
'  homely  figure,  and  then  practise  the  same  trick 
'  upon  another.  Thus  I  continued  doing  great  mis- 
'  chief  to  the  Crown,  until  my  officer  chancing  one 
'  mornrng  to  walk  abroad  earlier  than  ordinan,*,  sacri- 

*  ficed  me  to  his  pleasures,  and  made  use  of  me  to 

'  seduce 


ADVENTURES  OF  A  SHILLIXC.  55 

*  seduce  a  milk-maid.  This  wench  bent  me,  ami 
'  gave  me  to  her  sweetheart  applying  more  properly 
'  than  she  intended  the  usual  form  of—"  To  my  love 

*  "  and  from  my  love."  This  ungenerous  gallant 
'  marrying  her  within  few  days  after,  pawned  me 
'  for  a  dram  of  brandy  ;  and  drinking  me  out  next 
'  day,  I  was  beaten  flat  with  an  hammer,  and  again 
'  set  a-running. 

'  After  many  adventures,  which  it  would  be  tedious 
'  to  relate,  I  was  sent  to  a  young  spendthrift,  in  com- 
'  pany  with  the  will  of  his  deceased  father.  The 
'  young  fellow,  who,  I  found,  was  very  extravagant, 
'  gave  great  demonstrations  of  joy  at  the  receiving 
'the  will;  but  opening  it,  he  found  himself  dis- 
'  inherited,  and  cut  od  from  the  possession  of  a  fair 
'  estate  by  virtue  of  my  being  made  a  present  to  him. 
'  This  put  him  into  such  a  passion,  that  after  having 
'  taken  me  in  his  hand,  and  cursed  me,  he  squirred 
'  me  away  from  him  as  far  as  he  could  fling  me.  I 
'  chanced  to  light  in  an  unfrequented  place  under  a 
'  dead  w^all,  where  I  lay  undiscovered  and  useless, 
'  during  the  usurpation  of  Oliver  Cromwell. 

'  About  a  year  after  the  king's  return,  a  poor  cava- 
'  lier  that  was  walking  there  about  dinner-time,  fortu- 
'  nately  cast  his  eye  upon  me,  and,  to  the  great  joy 

'of 


56  ADVENTURES  OE  A  SHILLING.  ■ 

'  of  us  both,  carried  me  to  a  cook's  shop,  where  lie 
'  dined  upon  me,  and  drank  the  king's  health.  When 
'  I  came  again  into  the  world,  I  found  that  I  had  been 
'  happier  in  my  retirement  than  I  thouglit,  havincr 
'  probably  by  that  means  escaped  wearing  a  mon- 
'  strous  pair  of  breeches. 

•  '  Being  now  of  great  credit  and  antiquity,  I  was 
'  rather  looked  upon  as  a  medal  than  an  ordinary 
'  coin  ;  for  which  reason  a  gamester  laid  hold  of  me, 
'  and  converted  me  to  a  counter,  having  got  together 
'  some  dozens  of  us  for  that  use.  We  led  a  melan- 
'  choly  life  in  his  possession,  being  busy  at  those 
:'  hours  wherein  current  coin  is  at  rest,  and  partaking 
'  the  fate  of  our  master ;  being  in  a  few  moments 
'  valued  at  a  crown,  a  pound,  or  a  sixpence,  according 
'  to  the  situation  in  which  the  fortune  of  the  cards 
'  placed  us.  I  had  at  length  the  good  luck  to  see  my 
'  master  b.eak,  by  which  means  I  was  again  sent 
'  abroad  under  my  primitive  denomination  of  a  Shil- 
'  ling. 

'  I  shall  pass  over  many  other  accidents  of  less 
'  moment,  and  hasten  to  that  fatal  catastrophe  when 
'  I  fell  into  the  hands  of  an  artist,  who  conveyed  me 

•  under  ground,  and  with  an  unmerciful  pair  of 
'  shears,   cut  off  my  titles,    clipped   my   brims,   re- 

'  trenched 


ADVENTURES  OF  A  SHILLIKG.  57 

'trenched  my  shape,  rubbed  me  to  my  inmost  rin-;; 
'and  in  short,  so  spoiled  and  pillaged  me,  that  lie 
'  did  not  leave  me  worth  a  groat.  You  may  think 
'what  a  coni'usion  I  was  in  to  see  myself  thus 
'curtailed  and  disfigured.  I  should  have  been 
'ashamed  to  have  shewn  niv  head,  had  not  all  my 
'  old  acquaintance  been  reduced  to  the  same  shameful 
'  figure,  excepting  some  few  that  were  punched 
'  through  the  belly.  In  the  midst  of  this  general 
'  calamity,  when  every  body  thought  our  misfortune 
'  irretrievable,  and  our  case  desperate,  we  were  thrown 
'  into  the  furnace  together,  and  (as  it  often  happens 
'  with  cities  rising  out  of  a  fire)  appeared  with  greater 
'  beauty  and  lustre  than  we  could  ever  boast  of  before. 
'  What  has  happened  to  me  since  this  change  of  sex. 
'  which  you  now  see,  I  shall  take  some  other  oppor- 
'  tunity  to  relate.  In  the  mean  time  I  shall  only 
'  repeat  two  adventures ;  as  being  very  extraordinary, 
'  and  neither  of  them  having  ever  happened  to  me 
'  above  once  in  my  life.  The  first  was,  my  being  in 
'  a  poet's  pocket,  who  was  so  taken  with  the  brightness 
'  and  novelty  of  my  appearance,  that  it  gave  occasion 
'  to  the  finest  burlesque  poem  in  the  British  language, 
'  intituled  from  me — "  The  Splendid  Shilling."  The 
*  second  adventure,  which  I  must  not  omit,  happened 

'  to 


SS         ADVENTURES  OF  A  SHILLIXQ. 

'  to  me  in  the  year  one  thousand  seven  hundred  and 
'  three,  when  I  was  given  away  in  cliarity  to  a  bhnd 

*  man  ;  but  indeed  this  was  by  a  mistai<e,  the  person 
'  who  gave  me  having  heedlessly  thrown  me  into  the 

•  hat  among  a  pennyworth  of  farthings.' 

[Nov.  II,  1710.] 


FROZEN 


Tatler]  N°  9  [Addison 

FROZEN    VOICES. 


Splcndide  mendax 

— HOR. 


THERE  are  no  books  which  I  more  delight  in 
than  in  Travels,  especially  those  that  describe 
remote  countries,  and  give  the  writer  an  opportunity 
of  shewing  his  parts  without  incurring  any  danger  of 
being  examined  or  contradicted.  Among  all  the 
authors  of  this  kind,  our  renowned  countryman,  Sir 
John  Mandeville,  has  distinguished  himself  by  the 
copiousness  of  his  invention,  and  greatness  of  his 
genius.  The  second  to  Sir  John  I  take  to  have  been 
Ferdinand  Mendez  Pinto,  a  person  of  infinite  adven- 
ture, and  unbounded  imagination.  One  reads  the 
vovages  of  these  two  great  wits  with  as  much  astonish- 
ment as  the  Tiavels  of  Ulysses  in  Homer,  or  of  the 

Red-Cross 


6o  FROZEN  VOICES. 

Red-Cross  Knight  in  Spenser.  All  is  enchanted 
ground  and  iairy  Lind. 

I  have  got  into  my  hand,  by  great  chance,  several 
manuscripts  of  these  two  eminent  authors,  which  are 
liUed  with  greater  wonders  than  any  of  those  they 
have  communicated  to  the  public  ;  and  indeed,  were 
thcv  not  so  well  attested,  would  appear  altogether 
improbable.  I  am  apt  to  think  the  ingenious  authors 
d!d  not  publish  them  with  the  rest  of  their  works, 
lest  they  should  pass  for  fictions  and  fables :  a  caution 
not  unnecessary,  when  the  reputation  of  their  veracity 
was  not  yet  established  in  the  world.  But  as  this 
reason  has  now  no  further  weight,  I  shall  make  the 
public  a  present  of  these  curious  pieces  at  such  times 
as  I  shall  find  myself  unprovided  with  other  subjects. 

The  present  paper  I  intend  to  fill  with  an  extract  of 
Sir  John's  Journal,  in  which  that  learned  and  worthy 
knight  gives  an  account  of  the  freezing  and  thawing  of 
several  short  speeches,  which  he  made  in  the  territories 
of  Nova  Zembla.  I  need  not  inform  my  reader,  that  the 
author  of  Hudibras  alludes  to  th;S  strange  quality  in 
that  cold  climate,  when,  speaking  of  abstracted  notions 
clothed  in  a  visible  shape,  he  adds  that  apt  simile — 

Like  words  congejl'd  in  northern  air. 

Not 


FROZEN  VOICES.  6x 

Not  to  keep  my  reader  any  longer  in  suspense,  the 
relation,  put  into  modern  language,  is  as  I'ollows  : 

'  We  were  separated  by  a  storm  in  the  latitude  of 
'  75°,  insomuch  that  only  the  ship  which  I  was  in,  with 
'  a  Dutch  and  French  vessel,  got  safe  into  a  creek  of 
'  Nova  Zembla.  We  landed,  in  order  to  refit  our 
'  vessels,  and  store  ourselves  with  provisions.  The 
'  crew  of  each  vessel  made  themselves  a  cabin  of  turf 
'  and  wood,  at  some  distance  from  each  other,  to 
^  i'ence  themselves  against  the  inclemencies  of  the 
■  weather,  which  was  severe  bevond  imagination. 
'  We  soon  observed,  that  in  talking  to  one  another 
'  we  lost  several  of  our  words,  and  could  not  liear 
'  one  another  at  above  two  \-ards'  distance,  and  that 
'  too  when  we  sat  very  near  the  lire.  Alter  much 
'  perplexity,  I  found  that  our  words  froze  in  the  air, 
'  before  they  could  reach  the  ears  of  the  persons  to 
'  whom  they  were  spoken.  I  was  soon  conlirmed  in 
'  the  conjecture,  when,  upon  the  increase  of  the  cold, 
'  the  whole  companv  grew  dumb,  or  rather  deaf;  for 
'  every  man  was  sensible,  as  we  afterwards  found, 
'  that  he  spoke  as  well  as  ever ;  hut  the  sounds  no 
'  Eooner  took  air,  than  they  were  condensed  and  lost. 
'  It  was  now  a  miserable  spectacle  to  see  us  nodding 
'  and  gaping  at  one  another,  every  man  talking,  and 

'  no 


62  FROZEN  VOICES. 

'  no  man  heard.  One  might  observe  a  seaman,  that 
'  could  hail  a  ship  at  a  league's  distance,  beckoning 
'  with  his  hands,  straining  his  lungs,  and  tearing  his 
'  throat ;  but  all  in  vain. 

JVec  vox,  nee  I'erba,  seguunttcr. 

'We  continued  here  three  weeks  in  this  dismal 
'  plight.  At  length,  upon  a  turn  of  wind,  the  air 
'  about  us  began  to  thaw.  Our  cabin  was  immedi- 
'  ately  filled  with  a  dry  clattering  sound,  which  I 
'  afterwards  found  to  be  the  crackling  of  consonants 
'  that  broke  above  our  heads,  and  were  often  mixed 
'  with  a  gentle  hissing,  which  I  imputed  to  the  letter  S, 
'  that  occurs  so  frequently  in  the  English  tongue.  I 
'  soon  after  felt  a  breeze  of  whispers  rushing  by  my  ear; 
'  for  those  being  of  a  soft  and  gentle  substance,  imme- 
'  diately  liquefied  in  the  warm  wind  that  blew  across 
'  our  cabin.  These  were  soon  followed  by  syllables 
'  and  short  words,  and  at  length  by  entire  sentences, 
'  that  melted  sooner  or  later  as  they  were  more  or  less 
'  congealed ;  so  that  we  now  heard  every  thing  that 
'  had  been  spoken  during  the  whole  three  weeks  that 
'  we  had  been  silent,  if  I  may  use  that  expression. 
'  It  was  now  very  early  in  the  morning,  and  yet  to 
•  my  surprise,  I  heard  somebody  say—"  Sir  John,  it 


FROZEN  VOICES.  6j 

•  "  is  midnight,  and  time  for  tlie  ship's  crew  to  go  to 
'  "  bed."  This  1  knew  to  be  the  pilot's  voice,  and 
'  upon  recollecting  myself,  I  concluded  that  he  had 
'  spoken  these  words  to  me  some  days  before,  though 
'  I  could  not  hear  them  until  the  present  thaw. 
'  My  reader  will  easily  imagine  how  the  whole  crew 
'  was  amazed  to  hear  every  man  talking,  and  see  no 
'  man  open  his  mouth.  In  the  midst  of  this  great 
'  surprise  we  were  all  in,  we  heard  a  volley  of  oaths 
'  and  curses,  lasting  for  a  long  while,  and  uttered 
'  in  a  very  hoarse  voice,  which  I  knew  belonged  to 
'  the  boatswain,  who  was  a  very  choleric  fellow,  and 
'  had  taken  his  opportunity  of  cursing  and  swearing  at 
'  me  when  he  thought  I  could  not  hear  him ;  for  I 
'  had  several  times  given  him  the  ftrappado  on  that 
'  account,  as  I  did  not  fail  to  repeat  it  for  these  his 
'  pious  soliloquies,  when  I  got  him  on  shipboard. 

'  I  must  not  omit  the  names  of  several  beauties  in 
'  W'apping,  which  were  heard  every  now  and  then, 
'  in  the  midst  of  a  long  sigh  that  accompanied  them; 
'  as  "  Dear  Kate  ! "  "  Pretty  Mrs.  Peggy  !  "  "  When 
'  "shall  I  see  my  Sue  again?"  This  betrayed 
'  several  amours  which  had  been  concealed  until 
'  that  time,  and  furnished  us  with  a  great  deal  of 
'  mirth  in  our  return  to  England. 

'  When 


64  FROZEN  VOICES. 

'  When  this  confusion  of  voices  was  pretty  well 
'  over,  though  I  was  afraid  to  offer  at  speai<ing,  as 
'  fearing  I  should  not  be  heard,  I  proposed  a  visit  to 
'  the  Dutch  cabin,  which  lay  about  a  mile  further  up 
'  into  the  country.  My  crew  were  extremely  rejoiced 
'  to  find  they  had  again  recovered  their  hearing ; 
'  though  every  man  uttered  his  voice  with  the  same 
'  apprehensions  that  I  had  done — 

Et  iiiitide  v.-tha  inter/itissa  reientat. 

'  At  about  half-a-mile's  distance  I'rom  our  cabin, 
'  we  heard  the  groanings  of  a  bear,  which  at  first 
'  startled  us  ;  but  upon  inquiry,  we  were  informed  by 
'  some  of  our  company  that  he  was  dead,  and  now  lay 
'  in  salt,  having  been  killed  upon  that  very  spot  about 
'  a  fortnight  before,  in  the  time  of  the  frost.  Not  far 
'  f.om  the  same  place,  we  were  likewise  entertained 
'  with  some  posthumous  snarls  and  barkings  of  a 
'  fox. 

'  We  at  length  arrived  at  the  little  Dutch  settle- 
'  ment ;  and  upon  entering  the  room,  found  it  filled 
'  with  sighs  that  smelt  of  brandy,  and  several  other 
'  unsavoury  sounds,  that  were  altogether  inarticulate. 
'  My  valet,  who  was  an  Irishman,  fell  into  so  great  a 
'  rage  at  what  he    heard,   that  he  drew  his  sword  ;■ 

'  but 


FROZEN  VOICES.  6$ 

'  but  not  knowing  where  to  lay  the  blame,  he  put  it 
'  up  again.  We  were  stunned  with  these  confused 
'  noises,  but  did  not  hear  a  single  word  until  about 
'  half-an-hour  after ;  which  I  ascribed  to  the  harsh 
'  and  obdurate  sounds  of  that  language,  which  wanted 
'  more  time  than  ours  to  melt  and  become  audible. 

'  After  having  here  met  with  a  very  hearty  wel- 
''  come,  we  went  to  the  cabin  of  the  French,  who,  to 
•  make  amends  for  their  three  weeks'  silence,  were 

■  talking  and  disputing  with  greater  rapidity  and  con- 
'  fusion  than  ever  I  heard  in  an  assembly  even  of  that 
'  nation.  Their  language,  as  I  found,  upon  the  first 
'  gi'^'^g  of  the  weather,  iell  asunder  and  dissolved.  I 
'  was  here  convinced  of  an  error,  into  which  I  had 
'■  before  fallen  ;  for  I  fancied  that,  for  the  freezing  of 

■  the  sound,  it  was  necessary  for  it  to  be  wrapped  up 
'  and,  as  it  were,  preserved  in  breath  :  but  I  found 
'  my  mistake,  when  I  heard  the  sound  of  a  kit  playing 

a  minuet  over  our  heads.  I  asked  the  occasion  of 
it ;  upon  which  one  of  the  company  told  me,  it 
would  play  there  above  a  week  longer,  if  the  thaw 
continued  ;  "  for,"  says  he,  "  finding  ourselves 
"  bereft  of  speech,  we  prevailed  upon  one  of  the 
"  company,  who  had  this  musical  instrument  about 
"  him,  to  play  to  us  from  morning  to  night ;  all 

'  "  which. 


66  FROZEN  VOICES. 

'  "  whicli  time  we  employed  in  dancing,  in  order  to 
'  "  dissipate  our  chagrin,  et  tucr  le  temps."  ' 

Here  Sir  John  gives  very  good  philosophical  reasons 
why  the  kit  could  not  be  heard  during  the  frost ;  but 
as  they  are  something  prolix,  I  pass  them  over  in 
silence,  and  shall  only  observe,  that  the  honourable 
author  seems  by  his  quotations  to  have  been  well 
versed  in  the  ancient  poets,  which  perhaps  raised 
his  fancy  above  the  ordinary  pitch  of  historians,  and 
very  much  contributed  to  the  embellishment  of  his 
\vritings. 

[Nov.  23,  1 710.1 


STAGE 


Spectator]  -N      10  [Addison 

STAGE  LIONS. 


Die  viihi,  si  fueris  tu  leo,  quaiis  eris  ? 
—Mart. 


THERE  is  nothing  that  of  late  years  has  afforded 
matter  of  greater  amusement  to  the  town  than 
Signior  Nicohni's  combat  with  a  Lion  in  the  Hay- 
market,  which  has  been  very  often  exhibited  to  the 
general  satisfaction  of  most  of  the  nobility  and  gentry 
in  the  kingdom  of  Great  Britain.  Upon  the  first 
rumour  of  this  intended  combat,  it  was  confidently 
affirmed,  and  is  still  believed  by  many  in  both  gal- 
leries, that  there  would  be  a  tame  lion  sent  from  the 
Tower  every  opera  night,  in  order  to  be  killed  by 
Hydaspes.  This  report,  though  altogether  ground- 
less, so  universally  prevailed  in  the  upper  regions  of 
the  playhouse,  that  some  of  the  most  refined  politi- 
cians  in  those  parts  of  the  audience  gave  it  out  in 

whisper, 


68  STAGE  LIONS. 

whisper,  that  the  Lion  was  a  cousin-german  of  the 
Tiger  who  made  his  appearance  in  King  William's 
days,  and  that  the  stage  would  be  supplied  with  lions 
at  the  public  expense  during  the  whole  session. 
Many  likewise  were  the  conjectures  of  the  treatment 
which  this  Lion  was  to  meet  with  from  the  hands 
of  Signior  Nicolini  :  some  supposed  that  he  was  to 
subdue  him  in  recitativn,  as  Orpheus  used  to  serve 
the  wild  beasts  in  his  time,  and  afterwards  to  knock 
him  on  the  head  ;  rome  fancied  that  the  Lion  would 
not  pretend  to  lay  his  paws  upon  the  hero,  by  reason 
of  the  received  opinion,  that  a  Lion  will  not  hurt  a 
Virgin.  Several,  who  pretended  to  have  seen  the 
opera  in  Italy,  had  informed  their  friends,  that  the 
Lion  was  to  act  a  part  in  High-Dutch,  and  roar  twice 
or  thrice  to  a  thorough-bass,  before  he  fell  at  the  feet 
of  Hydaspes.  To  clear  up  a  matter  that  was  so 
variously  reported,  I  have  made  it  my  business  to 
examine  whether  this  pretended  Lion  is  really  the 
savage  he  appears  to  be,  or  only  a  counterfeit. 

But  before  I  communicate  my  discoveries,  I  must 
acquaint  the  reader,  that  upon  my  walking  behind 
the  scenes  last  winter,  as  I  was  thinking  on  some- 
thing else,  I  accidentally  justled  against  a  monstrous 
animal  that    extremely  startled    me,  and,   upon  my 

nearer 


STAGE  LIONS.  69 

nearer  survev  of  it,  appeared  to  be  a  Lion-Rampant. 
The  Lion,  seeing  me  very  much  surprised,  told  me, 
in  a  gentle  voice,  that  I  might  come  hy  him  if  I 
pleased — '  For,'  says  he,  '  I  do  not  intend  to  hurt  any- 
'  body.'  I  thanked  him  very  kindly,  and  passed  by 
him  ;  and  in  a  little  time  after  saw  him  leap  upon 
the  stage,  and  act  his  part  with  very  great  applause. 
It  has  been  observed  by  several,  that  the  Lion  has 
changed  his  manner  of  acting  twice  or  thrice  since 
his  first  appearance ;  which  will  not  seem  strange, 
when  I  acquaint  my  reader  that  the  Lion  has  been 
changed  upon  the  audience  three  several  times.  The 
first  L'on  was  a  Candle-snutTer,  who  being  a  fellow 
of  a  testy,  choleric  temper,  overdid  his  part,  and 
would  not  suffer  himself  to  be  killed  so  easily  as 
he  ought  to  have  done ;  besides,  it  was  observed  of 
him,  that  he  grew  more  surly  every  time  he  came 
out  of  the  Lion  ;  and  having  dropt  some  words  in 
ordinary  conversation,  as  if  he  had  not  fought  his 
best,  and  that  he  suffered  himself  to  be  thrown  upon 
his  back  in  the  scuffle,  and  that  he  would  wrestle  with 
Mr.  Nicolini  for  what  he  pleased,  out  of  his  Lion's 
skin,  it  was  thought  proper  to  discard  him  ;  and  it  is 
verily  believed,  to  this  day,  that  had  he  been  brought 
upon  the  stage  another  time,  he  ^vould  certainly  have 

done 


70  STAGE  LIONS. 

done  mischief.  Besides,  it  was  objected  against  the 
first  Lion,  that  he  reared  himself  so  high  upon  his 
hinder  paws,  and  walked  in  so  erect  a  posture,  that  he 
looked  more  like  an  old  Man  than  a  Lion. 

The  second  Lion  was  a  Tailor  by  trade,  who  be- 
longed to  the  playhouse,  and  had  the  character  of 
a  mild  and  peaceable  man  in  his  profession.  If  the 
former  was  too  furious,  this  was  too  sheepish,  for  his 
part ;  insomuch  that,  after  a  short  modest  walk  upon 
the  stage,  he  would  fall  at  the  first  touch  of  Hydaspes, 
without  grappling  with  him,  and  giving  him  an  op- 
portunity of  shewing  his  variety  of  Italian  trips  :  it  is 
said  indeed,  that  he  once  gave  him  a  rip  in  his  flesh- 
coloured  doublet;  but  this  was  only  to  make  work  for 
himself,  in  his  private  character  of  a  Tailor.  I  must 
not  omit  that  it  was  this  second  Lion  who  treated  me 
with  so  much  humanity  behind  the  scenes. 

The  acting  Lion  at  present  is,  as  I  am  informed,  a 
Country  Gentleman,  who  does  it  for  his  diversion, 
but  desires  his  name  may  be  concealed.  He  says 
very  handsomely  in  his  own  excuse,  that  he  does  not 
act  for  gain ;  that  he  indulges  an  innocent  pleasure 
in  it ;  and  that  it  is  better  to  pass  away  an  evening 
in  this  manner,  than  in  gaming  and  drinking ;  but  at 
the  same  time  says,  with  a  very  agreeable  raillery  upon 

himself, 


STAGE  LIONS.  71 

himself,  that  if  his  name  should  be  known,  the  ill-na- 
tured world  might  call  him  the  Ass  in  the  Liou's  skin. 
This  gentleman's  temper  is  made  of  such  a  happy  mix- 
ture of  the  mild  and  the  choleric,  that  he  out-does  both 
his  predecessors,  and  has  drawn  together  greater  audi- 
ences than  have  been  known  in  the  memory  of  man. 

I  must  not  concludj  my  narrative,  without  taking 
notice  of  a  groundless  report  that  has-been  ra'sed,  to 
a  gentleman's  disadvantage,  of  whom  I  must  declare 
myself  an  admirer ;  namch',  that  Sign'or  Nicolini 
and  the  Lion  have  been  seen  sitting  peaceably  by  one 
another,  and  smoking  a  pipe  together,  behind  the 
scenes ;  by  which  their  common  enemies  would  in- 
sinuate, it  is  but  a  sham  combat  which  they  represent 
upon  the  stage ;  but  upon  enquiry  I  find,  that  if  any 
such  correspondence  has  passed  between  them,  it  was 
not  till  the  combat  was  over,  when  the  Lion  was  to  be 
looked  upon  as  dead,  according  to  the  received  rules 
of  the  Drama.  Besides,  this  is  what  is  practised 
every  day  in  Westminster  Hall,  where  nothing  is 
more  usual  than  to  see  a  couple  of  lawyers,  who  have 
been  tearing  each  other  to  pieces  in  the  court,  em- 
bracing one  another  as  soon  as  they  are  out  of  it. 

I  would  not  be  thought,  in  any  part  of  this  rela- 
tion, to  reflect  upon  Signior  Nicolini,  who  in  acting 

this 


72  STAGE  LIONS. 

this  part  only  complies  with  the  wretched  taste  of  his 
audience ;  he  knows  very  well,  that  the  Lion  has 
many  more  admirers  than  himself;  as  they  say  of  the 
famous  equestrian  statue  on  the  Pont-Neuf  at  Paris, 
that  more  people  go  to  see  the  horse,  than  the  king 
who  sits  upon  it.  On  the  contrary,  it  gives  me  a 
just  indignation  to  see  a  person  whose  action  gives 
new  majesty  to  kings,  resolution  to  heroes,  and  soft- 
ness to  lovers,  thus  sinking  from  the  greatness  of  his 
behaviour,  and  degraded  into  the  character  of  the 
London  'Prentice.  I  have  often  wished,  that  our 
tragedians  would  copy  after  this  great  master  in 
action.  Could  they  make  the  same  use  of  their  arms 
and  legs,  and  inform  their  faces  with  as  significant 
looks  and  passions,  how  glorious  would  an  English 
tragedy  appear  with  that  action,  which  is  capable  of 
giving  a  dignity  to  the  forced  thoughts,  cold  conceits, 
and  unnatural  expressions  of  an  Italian  opera  !  In 
the  mean  time,  I  have  related  this  combat  of  the 
Lion,  to  shew  what  are  at  present  the  reigning  enter- 
tainments of  the  politer  part  of  Great  Britain. 

Audiences  have  often  been  reproached  by  writers 
for  the  coarseness  of  their  taste ;  but  our  present 
grievance  does  not  seem  to  be  the  want  of  a  good 
taste,  but  of  common  sense. 

[March  15,  1711.]  MEDITA  TIONS 

i 


Spectator]  -N      II  [Addison 

MEDITATIONS  IN  WESTMINSTER 
ABBEY. 


Pallida  mors  aqiio  puhat  pedc  paupcrum  iabcrnas 

Reginnque  turres.     O  bcate  Scsti, 
Vita  suinma  brevis  speiii  nos  vctal  inchoarc  longam. 

Jam  le  preinet  itox,  fabuLeqiie  iiiancs, 
Et  doinus  cxilis  Plutonia — Hor. 


WHEN  I  am  in  a  serious  humour,  1  very  often 
walk  by  myself  in  Westminster  Abbey ; 
where  the  gloominess  of  the  place,  and  the  use  to  which 
it  is  applied,  with  the  solemnity  of  the  building,  and 
the  condition  of  the  people  who  lie  in  it,  are  apt  to  iill 
the  mind  with  a  kind  of  melancholy,  or  rather  thought- 
fulness,  that  is  not  disagreeable.  I  yesterday  passed  a 
whole  afternoon  in  fhe  churchyard,  the  cloisters,  and 
the  church,  amusing  myself  with  the  tombstones  and 
inscriptions  that  I  met  with  in  those  several  regions 

of 


74  MEDITATIONS  IN 

of  the  dead.  Most  of  them  recorded  nothing  else  of 
the  buried  person,  but  that  he  was  born  upon  one 
day,  and  died  upon  another :  the  whole  history  of 
his  life  being  comprehended  in  those  two  circum- 
stances, that  are  common  to  all  mankind.  I  could 
not  but  look  upon  these  registers  of  existence, 
whether  of  brass  or  marble,  as  a  kind  of  satire  upon 
the  departed  persons  ;  who  had  left  no  other  memorial 
of  them,  but  that  they  were  born  and  that  they  died. 
They  put  me  in  mind  of  several  persons  mentioned 
in  the  battles  of  heroic  poems,  who  have  sounding 
names  given  them,  for  no  other  reason  but  that  they 
may  be  killed,  and  are  celebrated  for  nothing  but 
being  knocked  on  the  head, 

VXavKov  re,  MeSoi^a  re,  0ep<Tt\o\6v  re, 
Cla>ici<mq7ie,  Mciiontaijue,  Thersilochuiitque. 

The  life  of  these  men  is  finely  described  in  Holy 
Writ  by  'the  path  of  an  arrow,'  which  is  imme- 
diately closed  up  and  lost. 

Upon  my  going  into  the  church,  I  entertained  my- 
self with  the  digging  of  a  grave  ;  and  saw  in  every 
shovel-full  of  it  that  was  thrown  up,  the  fragment  of 
a   bone   or   skull   intermixed  with   a   kind   of  fresh 

mouldering 


n'ESTmXSTER  ABBEY.  7$ 

mouldering  earth  that  some  time  or  other  had  a  place 
in  the  composition  of  a  human  body.  Upon  this  I 
began  to  consider  with  myself,  \vhat  innumerable 
multitudes  of  people  lay  confused  together  under  the 
pavement  of  that  ancient  cathedral ;  how  men  and 
women,  friends  and  enemies,  priests  and  soldiers, 
monks  and  prebendaries,  were  crumbled  amongst  one 
another,  and  blended  together  in  the  same  common 
mass ;  how  beauty,  strength,  and  youth,  with  old- 
age,  weakness,  and  deformity,  lay  undistinguished  in 
the  same  promiscuous  heap  of  matter. 

After  having  tlius  surveyed  this  great  magazine 
of  mortality,  as  it  were  in  the  lump,  I  examined  it 
more  particularly  by  the  accounts  which  1  found  on 
several  of  the  monuments  which  are  raised  in  every 
quarter  of  that  ancient  fabric.  Some  of  them  were 
covered  with  such  extravagant  epitaphs,  that,  if  it 
were  possible  for  the  dead  person  to  be  acquainted 
with  them,  he  would  blush  at  the  praises  which 
his  friends  have  bestowed  upon  him.  There  are 
others  so  excessively  modest,  that  they  deliver  the 
character  of  the  person  departed  in  Greek  or  Hebrew, 
and  by  that  means  are  not  understood  once  in  a 
twelvemonth.  In  the  poetical  quarter,  I  found  there 
were  poets  who  had  no  monuments,  and  monuments 

which 


76  MEDITATIONS  IN 

which  had  no  poets.  I  observed  indeed  that  the 
present  war  had  filled  the  church  with  many  of  these 
uninhabited  monuments,  which  had  been  erected  to 
the  memory  of  persons  whose  bodies  were  perhaps 
buried  in  the  plains  of  Blenheim,  or  in  the  bosom  of 
the  ocean. 

I  could  not  but  be  very  much  delighted  with 
several  modern  epitaphs,  which  are  written  with 
great  elegance  of  expression  and  justness  of  thought, 
and  therefore  do  honour  to  the  living  as  well  as  the 
dead.  As  a  foreigner  is  very  apt  to  conce  ve  an 
idea  of  the  ignorance  or  politeness  of  a  nation  from 
the  turn  of  their  public  monuments  and  inscrip- 
tions, they  should  be  submitted  to  the  perusal  of 
men  of  learning  and  genius  before  they  are  put  in 
execution.  Sir  Cloudesly  Shovel's  monument  has 
very  often  given  me  great  offence ;  instead  of  the 
brave  rough  English  admiral,  which  was  the  dis- 
tinguishing character  of  that  plain  gallant  man,  he  is 
represented  on  his  tomb  by  the  figure  of  a  beau, 
dressed  in  a  long  periwig,  and  reposing  himself  upon 
velvet  cushions  under  a  canopy  of  state.  The  inscrip- 
tion is  answerable  to  the  monument ;  for  instead  of 
celebrating  the  many  remarkable  actions  he  had  per- 
formed in  the  service  of  his  country,  it  acquaints  lis 

only 


irESTMIXSTER  ABBEY. 


11 


only  witli  tlic  manner  of  his  death,  in  which  it  was 
impossible  for  him  to  reap  any  honour.  The  Dutch, 
whom  we  are  apt  to  despise  for  want  of  genius,  shew 
an  infinitely  greater  taste  of  antiquity  and  politeness 
in  their  buildings  and  works  of  this  nature,  than 
what  we  meet  with  in  those  of  our  own  country. 
The  monuments  of  their  admirals,  which  have  been 
erected  at  the  public  expense,  represent  them  like 
themselves  ;  and  are  adorned  with  ro^stral  crowns  and 
naval  ornaments,  with  beautiful  festoons  of  sea-weed, 
shells,  and  coral. 

But  to  return  to  our  subject.  I  have  left  the  re- 
pository of  our  English  kings  for  the  contemplation 
of  another  day,  when  I  shall  find  my  mind  disposed 
for  so  serious  an  amusement.  I  know  that  entertain- 
ments of  this  nature  are  apt  to  raise  dark  and  dismal 
thoughts  in  timorous  minds  and  gloomy  imagina- 
tions ;  but  for  my  own  part,  though  I  am  always 
serious,  I  do  not  know  what  it  is  to  be  melancholy ; 
and  can,  therefore,  take  a  view  of  nature,  in  her  deep 
and  solemn  scenes,  with  the  same  pleasure  as  in  her 
most  gay  and  delightful  ones.  By  this  means  I  can 
improve  myself  with  those  objects,  which  others  con- 
sider with  terror.  When  I  look  upon  the  tombs  of 
the  great,  every  emotion  of  envy  dies  in  me  ;  when  I 

read 


78  MEDITATIONS. 

read  the  epitaphs  of  the  beautiful,  every  inordinate 
desire  goes  out ;  when  I  meet  with  the  grief  of 
parent  upon  a  tombstone,  my  heart  melts  with  com- 
passion ;  when  I  see  the  tomb  of  the  parents  them- 
selves, I  consider  the  vanity  of  grieving  for  those 
whom  we  must  quickly  follow :  when  I  see  kings 
lying  by  those  who  deposed  them,  when  I  consider 
rival  wits  placed  side  by  side,  or  the  lioly  men  that 
divided  the  world  with  their  contests  and  disputes,  I 
reflect  with  sorrow  and  astonishment  on  the  little 
competitions,  factions,  and  debates  of  mankind. 
When  I  read  the  several  dates  of  the  tombs,  of  some 
that  died  yesterday,  and  some  six  hundred  years  ago, 
I  consider  that  great  day  when  we  shall  all  of  us  be 
contemporaries,  and  make  our  appearance  together. 

[March  50,  1711.] 


THE 


Spectator]  N      13  [Addisom 

THE  EXERCISE   OF   THE   FAN. 


Lusus  animo  dehfitt  aliqiiando  dari. 

Ad  cogitanduin  mclior  ut  redeat  sihi. 

^Ph.edr. 


I  DO  not  know  whether  to  call  the  following  letter 
a  satire  upon  coquettes,  or  a  representation  of 
their  several  fantastical  accomplishments,  or  what 
other  title  to  give  it ;  but  as  it  is  I  shall  communicate 
it  to  the  public.  It  will  sufficiently  explain  its  own 
intentions,  so  that  I  shall  give  it  my  reader  at  length, 
without  either  preface  or  postscript. 

MR.  SPECTATOR, 

"Y^T'OMEN  are  armed  with  fans  as  men  with  swords, 

and  sometimes  do  more  execution  with  them. 

To  the  end  therefore  that  ladies  mav  be  entire  mistresses 

of   the  weapon  which  they  bear,  I  have  erected  an 

academy 


8o  THE  EXERCISE  OF  THE  FAN. 

academy  for  the  training  up  of  young  women  in  the 
'  Exercise  of  the  Fan,'  according  to  the  most  fashion- 
able airs  and  motions  that  are  now  practised  at  court. 
The  ladies  who  '  carry '  fans  under  me  are  drawn  up 
twice  a  day  in  my  great  hall,  where  they  are  in- 
structed in  the  use  of  their  arms,  and  exercised  by  the 
following  words  of  command  : 

Handle  your  fans, 
Unfurl  your  fans, 
Discharge  your  fans. 
Ground  your  fans. 
Recover  your  fans. 
Flutter  your  fans. 

By  the  right  observation  of  these  few  plain  words  of 
command,  a  woman  of  a  tolerable  genius,  who  will 
apply  herself  diligently  to  her  exercise  for  the  space 
of  but  one  half-year,  shall  be  able  to  give  her  fan  all 
the  graces  that  can  possibly  enter  into  that  little 
modish  machine. 

But  to  the  end  that  my  readers  may  form  to  them- 
selves a  right  notion  of  this  exercise,  I  beg  leave  to 
explain  it  to  them  in  all  its  parts.  When  my  female 
regiment  is  drawn  up  in  array,  with  every  one  her 
"weapon  in  her  hand,  upon  my  giving  the  word  to 
'  handle  their  fan,'  each  of  them  shakes  her  fan  at  me 
with  a  smile,  then  gives  her  right-hand  woman  a  tap 

upon 


THE  EXERCISE  OF  THE  F.4N.  8r 

upon  tlie  shoulder,  then  presses  her  lips  with  the  ex- 
tremity of  her  fan,  then  lets  her  arms  fall  in  an  easy 
motion,  and  stands  in  a  readiness  to  receive  the  next 
Avord  of  command.  All  this  is  done  with  a  close  fan, 
and  is  generally  learned  in  the  first  ^veek. 

The  next  motion  is  that  of  '  unfurling  the  fan,'  in 
Avhich  are  comprehended  several  little  flirts  and  vibra- 
tions, as  also  gradual  and  deliberate  openings,  ^vitll 
many  voluntary  fallings  asunder  in  the  fan  itself,  that 
are  seldom  learned  under  a  month's  practice.  This 
part  of  the  exercise  pleases  the  spectators  more  than 
any  other,  as  it  discovers  on  a  sudden  an  infinite 
number  of  cupids,  garlands,  altars,  birds,  beasts,  rain- 
bows, and  the  like  agreeable  figures,  that  display 
themselves  to  view,  whilst  every  one  in  the  regiment 
holds  a  picture  in  her  hand. 

Upon  my  giving  the  word  to  '  discharge  their  fans,* 
they  give  one  general  crack  that  may  be  heard  at  a 
considerable  distance  when  the  wind  sits  lair.  Th!s 
is  one  of  the  most  difficult  parts  of  the  exercise  ;  but 
I  have  several  ladies  with  me,  who  at  their  first  en- 
trance could  not  give  a  pop  loud  enough  to  be  heard 
at  the  further  end  of  a  room,  who  can  now  '  discharge 
'  a  fan '  in  such  a  manner,  that  it  shall  make  a  report 
like  a  pocket-pistol.       I  have  likewise  taken  care  (in 

order 


82  THE  EXERCISE  OF  THE  FAN. 

order  to  hinder  young  women  from  letting  off  their 
fans  in  wrong  places  or  unsuitable  occasions),  to  shew 
upon  what  subject  the  crack  of  a  fan  may  come  in 
properly ;  I  have  likewise  invented  a  fan  with  which 
a  girl  of  sixteen,  by  the  help  of  a  little  wind  which  is 
inclosed  about  one  of  the  largest  sticks,  can  make  as 
loud  a  crack  as  a  woman  of  fifty  with  an  ordinary 
fan. 

When  the  fans  are  thus  '  discharged,'  the  word  of 
command  in  course  is  to  '  ground  their  fans.'  This 
teaches  a  lady  to  quit  her  fan  gracefully  when  she 
throws  it  aside  in  order  to  take  up  a  pack  of  cards, 
adjust  a  curl  of  hair,  replace  a  falling  pin,  or  apply 
herself  to  any  other  matter  of  importance.  This  part 
of  the  exercise,  as  it  only  consists  in  tossing  a  fan 
with  an  air  upon  a  long  table  (which  stands  by  for  that 
purpose),  may  be  learned  in  two  days'  time  as  well  as 
in  a  twelvemonth. 

When  my  female  regiment  is  thus  disarmed,  I 
generally  let  them  walk  about  the  room  for  some 
time  ;  when  on  a  sudden  (like  ladies  that  look  upon 
their  watches  alter  a  long  visit),  they  all  of  them 
hasten  to  their  arms,  catch  them  up  in  a  hurry,  and 
place  themselves  in  their  proper  stations  upon  my 
calling  out — '  Recover  your  fans  I  '    This  part  of  the 

exercise 


THE  EXERCISE  OE  THE  FAN.  8j 

exercise  is  not  dilHcult,  provided  a  woman  applies  her 
thoughts  to  it. 

The  '  fluttering  of  the  fan  '  is  the  last  and  indeed 
the  master-piece  of  the  whole  exercise ;  but  if  a  lady 
does  not  mis-spend  her  time,  she  may  make  herself 
mistress  of  it  in  three  months.  I  generally  la}'  aside 
the  dog-days  and  the  hot  time  of  the  summer  for  the 
teaching  this  part  of  the  '  exercise ' ;  for  as  soon  as  ever 
I  pronounce — '  Flutter  your  fans,'  the  glace  is  filled 
with  so  many  zephyrs  and  gentle  breezes  as  are  verj' 
refreshing  in  that  season  of  the  year,  though  they 
might  be  dangerous  to  ladies  of  a  tender  constitution 
in  any  other. 

There  is  an  infinite  variety  of  motions  to  be  made 
use  of  in  the  '  flutter  of  a  fan  :  '  there  is  the  angry 
flutter,  the  modest  flutter,  the  timorous  flutter,  the 
confused  flutter,  the  merry  flutter,  and  the  amorous 
flutter.  Not  to  be  tedious,  there  is  scarce  any  emo- 
tion in  the  mind  which  does  not  produce  a  suitable 
agitation  in  the  fan  ;  insomuch,  that  if  I  only  see  the 
fan  of  a  disciplined  lady,  I  know  very  well  whether 
she  laughs,  frowns,  or  blushes.  I  have  seen  a  fan  so 
very  angry,  that  it  would  have  been  dangerous  for  the 
absent  lover  who  provoked  it  to  have  come  within 
the  wind  of  it ;  and  at  other  times  so  very  languish- 
ing. 


■84  THE  EXERCISE  OF  THE  FAN. 

ing,  that  I  have  been  ghid  for  the  lady's  salie  the  lover 
was  at  a  sufficient  distance  from  it.  I  need  not  add, 
that  a  fan  is  either  a  prude  or  coquette,  according  to 
the  nature  of  the  person  who  bears  it.  To  conclude 
my  letter,  I  must  acquaint  you  that  I  have  from  my 
own  observations  compiled  a  little  treatise  for  the  use 
of  my  scholars,  entitled  '  The  Passions  of  the  Fan  ; ' 
which  I  will  communicate  to  vou,  if  you  think  it 
may  be  of  use  to  the  public.  I  shall  have  a  general 
review  on  Thursday  next ;  to  which  you  shall  be  very 
welcome  if  vou  will  honour  it  with  your  presence. 

I  am,  &c. 

P.S.  I  teach  young  gentlemen  the  whole  art  of 
gallanting  a  fan. 

N.B.  I  have  several  little  plain  fans  made  for  this 
use,  to  avoid  expense. 

{June  27,  1711.] 


n^ILL 


Spectator]  N     1 3  [Addisom 

WILL    WIMBLE. 


Gratis  anhclans,  uiidta  agendo  nihil  agcm. 

—  PH.tDR. 


A  S  I  \vas  yesterday  morning  walking  with  Sir 
•^  *■  Roger  before  his  house,  a  country-follow 
brought  him  a  huge  fish,  which,  he  told  him,  Mr. 
W'illi.im  Wimble  had  caught  that  very  morning  ;  and 
that  he  presented  it,  with  his  service  to  him,  and 
intended  to  come  and  dine  with  him.  At  the  same 
time  he  delivered  a  letter  which  my  friend  read  to  me 
as  soon  as  the  messenger  left  him. 

SIR     ROGER, 

T  DESIRE  you  to  accept  of  a  jack,  which  is  the  best 

I  have  caught  this  season.     I  intend  to  come  and 

stay  with  you  a  week,  and  see  how  the  perch  bite  in 

the  Black  River.     I  observed  with  some. concern,  the 

last 


86  fFILL  WIMBLE. 

last  time  I  saw  you  upon  the  bowling-green,  that 
your  whip  wanted  a  lash  to  it ;  I  will  bring  half-a- 
dozen  with  me  that  I  twisted  last  week,  which  I  hope 
will  serve  you  all  the  time  you  are  in  the  country.  I 
have  not  been  out  of  the  saddle  for  six  days  last  past, 
having  been  at  Eton  with  Sir  John's  eldest  son.  He 
takes  to  his  learning  hugely. — I  am,  sir,  your  humble 
servant.  Will  Wimble. 

This  extraordinary  letter,  and  the  message  that 
accompanied  it,  made  me  very  curious  to  know  the 
character  and  quality  of  the  gentleman  who  sent 
them,  which  I  found  to  be  as  follows.  Will  Wimble 
is  younger  brother  to  a  baronet,  and  descended  of  the 
ancient  family  of  the  Wimbles.  He  is  now  between 
forty  and  fifty ;  but  being  bred  to  no  business  and 
born  to  no  estate,  he  generally  lives  with  his  elder 
brother  as  superintendent  of  his  game.  He  hunts  a 
pack  of  dogs  better  than  any  man  in  the  country,  and 
is  very  famous  for  finding  out  a  hare.  He  is  ex- 
tremely well  versed  in  all  the  little  handicrafts  of  an 
idle  man.  He  makes  a  May-fly  to  a  miracle ;  and 
furnishes  the  whole  country  with  angle-rods.  As  he 
is  a  good-natured  officious  fellow,  and  very  much 
esteemed  upon  account  of  his  family,  he  is  a  welcome 

guest 


iriLL  iriMBLE.  87 

guest  at  every  house,  and  keeps  up  a  good  corre- 
spondence among  all  the  gentlemen  about  him.  He 
carries  a  tulip-root  in  his  pocket  from  one  to  another. 
Or  exchanges  a  puppy  between  a  couple  of  friends  that 
live  perhaps  in  the  opposite  sides  of  the  county.  Will 
is  a  particular  favourite  of  all  the  young  heirs,  whom 
he  frequently  obliges  with  a  net  that  he  has  weaved 
or  a  setting-dog  that  he  has  '  made  '  himself.  "He  now 
and  then  presents  a  pair  of  garters  of  his  own  knitting 
to  their  mothers  or  sisters ;  and  raises  a  great  deal  of 
mirth  among  them,  by  inquiring  as  often  as  he  meets 
them,  'How  they  wear?'  These  gentleman-like 
manufactures  and  obliging  little  humours  make  Will 
the  darling  of  the  country. 

Sir  Roger  was  proceeding  in  the  character  of  him, 
when  he  saw  him  make  up  to  us  with  two  or  three 
hazel-twigs  in  his  hand  that  he  had  cut  in  Sir  Roger's 
woods,  as  he  came  through  them,  in  his  way  to  the 
house.  I  was  very  much  pleased  to  observe  on  one 
side  the  hearty  and  sincere  welcome  with  which  Sir 
Roger  received  him,  and  on  the  other,  the  secret  joy 
which  his  guest  discovered  at  sight  of  the  good  old 
knight.  After  the  first  salutes  were  over.  Will  de- 
sired Sir  Roger  to  lend  him  one  of  his  servants  to 
carry  a  set  of  shuttlecocks  he  had  with  him  in  a  little 

box 


88  JFILL  WIMBLE. 

box  to  a  lady  that  lived  about  a  mile  off,  to  whom  it 
seems  he  had  promised  such  a  present  for  above  this 
half-year.  Sir  Roger's  back  was  no  sooner  turned, 
but  honest  Will  began  to  tell  me  of  a  large  cock- 
pheasant  that  he  had  sprung  in  one  of  the  neighbour- 
ing woods,  with  two  or  three  other  adventures  ot  the 
same  nature.  Odd  and  uncommon  characters  are  the 
game  that  I  look  for,  and  most  delight  in  ;  for  whicli 
reason  I  was  as  much  pleased  with  the  novelty  of  the 
person  that  talked  to  me  as  he  could  be  I'or  his  life 
w'ith  the  springing  of  the  pheasant,  and  therefore 
listened  to  him  with  more  than  ordinary  attention. 

In  the  midst  of  this  discourse  the  bell  rung  to 
dinner,  where  the  gentleman  I  have  been  speaking  of 
had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  the  huge  jack  he  had 
caught,  served  up  for  the  first  dish  in  a  most  sumptu- 
ous manner.  Upon  our  sitting  down  to  it,  he  gave 
us  a  long  account  how  he  had  hooked  it,  played  with 
it,  foiled  it,  and  at  length  drew  it  out  upon  the  bank, 
with  several  other  particulars  that  lasted  all  the  first 
course.  A  dish  of  wild  fowl  that  came  afterwards 
furnished  conversation  for  the  rest  of  the  dinner, 
which  concluded  with  a  late  invention  of  Will's  for 
improving  the  quail-pipe. 

Upon  withdrawing  into  my  room  after  dinner,  I 

was 


WILL  JJIMBLE.  89 

was  secretly  touched  with  compassion  towards  the 
honest  gentleman  that  had  dined  with  us ;  and  could 
not  but  consider  with  a  great  deal  of  concern,  how 
so  good  an  heart  and  such  busy  hands  v.-ere  wholly 
employed  in  trifles;  that  so  niucli  humanity  should 
be  so  little  beneficial  to  others,  and  so  much  industry 
so  little  advantageous  to  himself.  The  same  temper 
of  mind  and  application  to  afl'airs  might  have  recom- 
mended him  to  the  public  esteem,  and  have  raised  his 
fortune  in  another  station  of  life.  What  good  to  liis 
country  or  himself  might  not  a  trader  or  merchant 
have  done  with  such  useful  though  ordinary  qualifi- 
cations ? 

Will  Wimble's  is  the  case  of  many  a  younger 
brother  of  a  great  family,  who  had  rather  see  their 
children  starve  like  gentlemen,  than  thrive  in  a  trade 
or  profession  that  is  beneath  their  quality.  This 
humour  fills  several  parts  of  Europe  with  pride  and 
beggary.  It  is  the  happiness  of  a  trading  nation,  like 
ours,  that  the  younger  sons,  though  incapable  of  any 
liberal  art  or  profession,  may  be  placed  in  such  a  way 
of  life,  as  may  perhaps  enable  them  to  vie  with  the 
best  of  their  family  :  accordingly  we  find  several  citi- 
zens that  were  launched  into  the  world  with  narrow 
fortunes,    rising   by   an    honest    industry  to    greater 

estates 


90  IFILL  IVIMBLE. 

estates  than  those  of  their  elder  brothers.  It  is  not 
improbable  but  Will  was  formerly  tried  at  divinity, 
law  or  physic  ;  and  that  finding  his  genius  did  not  lie 
that  way,  his  parents  gave  him  up  at  length  to  his 
own  inventions.  But  certainly,  however  improper 
he  might  have  been  for  studies  of  a  higher  nature,  he 
was  perfectly  well  turned  for  the  occupations  of  trade 
and  commerce. 

[July^,  1711.] 


SIR 


Spectator]  N     1 4  [Steele 

SIR  ROGER  DE  COVERLEY'S 
ANCESTORS. 


Abnormis  sapiens 


— HOR. 


T  WAS  this  morning  walking  in  the  gallery,  when 
-*•  Sir  Roger  entered  at  the  end  opposite  to  me,  and 
advancing  towards  me,  said  he  was  glad  to  meet  me 
among  his  relations  the  De  Coverleys,  and  hoped  I 
liked  the  conversation  of  so  much  good  company,  who 
were  as  silent  as  myself.  I  knew  he  alluded  to  the 
pictures,  and  as  he  is  a  gentleman  who  does  not  a 
little  value  himself  upon  his  ancient  descent,  I  ex- 
pected he  would  give  me  some  account  of  them.  We 
were  now  arrived  at  the  upper  end  of  the  gallery, 
when  the  knight  faced  towards  one  of  the  pictures, 
and  as  we  stood  before  it,  he  entered  into  the  matter, 
after  his  blunt  way  of  saying  things,  as  they  occur  to 

his 


92  SIR  ROGER  DE  COVERLEY'S 

his  imagination,  without  regular  introduction,  or  care 
to  preserve  tlie  appearance  of  chain  of  thought. 

'  It  is,'  said  he,  '  worth  while  to  consider  the  force 
'  of  dress ;  and  how  the  persons  of  one  age  ditler 
'  from  those  of  another  merely  by  that  only.  One 
'  may  observe  also,  that  the  general  fashion  of  one  age 
'  has  been  followed  bv  one  particular  set  of  people  in 
'  another,  and  by  them  preserved  from  one  generation 
'  to  another.  Thus  the  vast  jetting  coat  and  small 
'  bonnet,  which  was  the  habit  in  Harry  the  Seventh'i 
'  time,  is  kept  on  in  the  yeomen  of  the  guard  ;  not 
'  without  a  good  and  politic  view,  because  they  look. 
'  a  foot  taller,  and  a  foot  and  a-half  broader ;  besides, 
'  that  the  cap  leaves  the  face  expanded,  and  conse- 
'  quently  more  terrible,  and  fitter  to  stand  at  the 
'  entrance  of  palaces. 

'  This  predecessor  of  ours,  you  see,  is  dressed  after 
'  this  manner,  and  his  cheeks  would  be  no  larger 
'  than  mine,  were  he  in  a  hat  as  I  am.  He  was  the 
'  last  man  that  won  a  prize  in  the  Tilt-Yard  (which  is 
'  now  a  common  street  before  Whitehall.)  You  see 
'  the  broken  lance  that  lies  there  by  his  right  foot  ; 
'  he  shivered  that  lance  of  his  adversary  all  to  pieces; 
'  and  bearing  himself,  look  you.  Sir,  in  this  manner, 
'  at  the  same  time  he  came  within  the  target  of  the 

'  gentleman 


ylXCI-STORS.  9J 

•gentleman  who  rode  against  him,  and  taking  liim 
'  with  incredible  force  before  him  on  the  pommel  of 
'  his  saddle,  he  in  that  manner  rid  the  tournament 
'  over,  with  an  air  that  shewed  he  did  it  rather 
'  to  perform  the  rule  of  the  lists  than  expose  his 
'  enemy;  however,  it  appeared  he  knew  how  to  make 
'  use  of  a  victory,  and  with  a  gentle  trot  he  marclitJ 
'  up  to  a  gallery  where  their  mistress  sat  (for  they 
'  were  rivals),  and  let  him  down  with  laudable  cour- 
'  tesy  and  pardonable  insolence.  I  don't  know  but 
'  it  might  be  exactly  where  the  CoOee-house  is  now. 
'  You  are  to  know  this  my  ancestor  was  not  only 
'  of  a  military  genius,  but  fit  also  for  the  arts  of  peace, 
'  for  he  played  on  the  bass-viol  as  well  as  any  gentle- 
'  man  at  court ;  you  see  where  his  viol  hangs  by  his 
'  basket-hilt  sword.  The  action  at  the  Tilt- Yard  you 
'  may  be  sure  won  the  fair  lady,  who  was  a  maid  of 
'  honour,  and  the  greatest  beauty  of  her  time ;  here 
'  she  stands,  the  next  picture.  You  see.  Sir,  my 
'  great-great-grandmother  has  on  the  new  fashioned 
'  petticoat,  except  that  the  modern  is  gathered  at  the 
'  waist  ;  my  grandmother  appears  as  if  she  stood  in  a 
'  large  drum,  whereas  the  ladies  now  walk  as  if  they 
'  were  in  a  go-cart.  For  all  this  lady  was  bred  at 
'  court,   she    became  an  excellent  country-wife,  she 

'  brout;ht 


94  SIR  ROGER  DE  COVERLEY'S 

'  brought  ten  children,  and  when  I  shew  you  the 
'  library,  you  shall  see  in  her  own  hand  (allowing  for 
'  the  difference  of  the  language)  the  best  receipt  now 
'  in  England  both  for  an  hasty  pudding  and  a  white- 
•jot. 

'  If  you  please  to  fall  back  a  little,  because  'tis 
'  necessary  to  look  at  the  three  next  pictures  at  one 
'  view,  these  are  three  sisters.  She  on  the  right  hand, 
'  who  is  so  very  beautiful,  died  a  maid  ;  the  next  to 
'  her,  still  handsomer,  had  the  same  fate,  against  her 
'  will ;  this  homely  thing  in  the  middle  had  both 
'  their  portions  added  to  her  own,  and  was  stolen  by 
'  a  neighbouring  gentleman,  a  man  of  stratagem  and 
'  resolution,  for  he  poisoned  three  mastiffs  to  come  at 
'  her,  and  knocked  down  two  deer-stealers  in  carrying 
'  her  off.  Misfortunes  happen  in  all  families :  the 
'  theft  of  this  romp  and  so  much  money,  was  no  great 
'  matter  to  our  estate.  But  the  next  heir  that  pos- 
'  sessed  it  was  this  soft  gentleman,  whom  j-ou  see 
'  there :  observe  the  small  buttons,  the  little  boots, 
'  the  laces,  the  slashes  about  his  clothes,  and  above 
'  all  the  posture  he  is  drawn  in  (which  to  be  sure  was 
'  liis  own  choosing).;  you  see  he  sits  with  one  hand 
'  on  a  desk  writing,  and  looking  as  it  were  another 
'  way,  like  an  easy  writer,  or  a  sonneteer :   he  was 

'  one 


ANCESTORS.  95 

'  one  of  those  that  liad  too  much  wit  to  know  how  to 
'  live  in  the  world;  he  was  a  man  of  no  justice,  but 
'  great  good  manners ;  he  ruined  everybody  that  had 
'  anything  to  do  with  him,  but  never  said  a  rude 
'  thing  in  his  life ;  the  most  indolent  person  in  the 
'  world,  he  would  sign  a  deed  that  passed  away  half 
'  his  estate  with  his  gloves  on,  but  would  not  put  on 
'  his  hat  before  a  lady,  if  it  were  to  save  his  country. 
'  He  is  said  to  be  the  first  that  made  love  by  squeezing 
'  the  hand.  He  left  the  estate  with  ten  thousand 
'  pounds  debt  upon  it ;  but  however,  by  all  hands  I 
'  have  been  informed  that  he  was  every  way  the  finest 
'  gentleman  in  the  world.  That  debt  lay  heavy  on 
'  our  house  for  one  generation,  but  it  was  retrieved 
'  by  a  gift  from  that  honest  man  you  see  there,  a 
'  citizen  of  our  name,  but  nothing  at  all  akin  to  us. 
'  I  know  Sir  Andrew  Freeport  has  said  behind  my 
'  back  that  this  man  was  descended  from  one  of  the 
'  ten  children  of  the  maid  of  honour  I  shewed  you 
'  above  ;  but  it  was  never  made  out.  We  winked  at 
'  the  thing  indeed,  because  money  was  wanting  at 
'  that  time.' 

Here  I  saw  my  friend  a  little  embarrassed,  and 
turned  mv  face  to  the  next  portraiture. 

Sir  Roger  went  on  with  his  account  of  the  gallery 


96  SIR  ROGER  DE  COVERLEY'S 

in  tlie  following  manner.  '  This  man  '  (pointing  to 
him  I  looked  at)  '  I  take  to  be  the  honour  of  our 
'  house,  Sir  Humphrey  de  Coverlev ;  he  was  in  his 
'  dealings  as  punctual  as  a  tradesman  and  as  generous 
'  as  a  gentleman.  He  would  have  thought  liimself 
'  as  much  undone  by  breaking  his  word  as  if  it  were 
'  to  he  followed  by  bankruptcy.  He  served  liis 
'  country  as  knight  of  the  shire  to  his  dying  day. 
'  He  lound  it  no  easy  matter  to  maintain  an  integrity 
'  in  his  words  and  actions,  even  in  things  that  re- 
'  garded  tlie  offices  which  were  incumbent  upon  liim, 
'  in  the  care  of  his  own  affairs  and  relations  of  life; 
'  and  therefore  dreaded  (though  he  had  great  talents) 
'  to  go  into  employments  of  state,  where  he  must 
'  be  exposed  to  the  snares  of  ambition.  Innocence  of 
'  life  and  great  ability  were  the  distinguishing  parts 
'  of  his  character ;  the  latter,  he  had  often  observed, 
'  had  led  to  the  destruction  of  the  former,  and  used 
'  frequently  to  lament  that  great  and  good  had  not 
'  the  same  signification.  He  was  an  excellent  hus- 
'  bandman,  but  had  resolved  not  to  exceed  such  a 
'  degree  of  wealth  ;  all  above  it  he  bestowed  in  secret 
'  bounties  many  years  after  the  sum  he  aimed  at  for 
'  his  own  use  was  attained.  Yet  he  did  not  slacken 
•  his  industry,  but  to  a  decent  old  age  spent  the  life 

'  and 


ANCESTORS.  97 

'  and  fortune  which  \vas  superfluous  to  himself,  in 
'  tlie  service  of  his  friendi  and  neighbours.' 

Here  we  were  called  to  dinner,  and  Sir  Roger 
ended  the  discourse  of  this  gentleman,  by  telling  me, 
as  we  followed  the  servant,  thai  this  his  ancestor  was 
a  brave  man,  and  narrowly  escaped  being  killed  in  the 
civil  wars;  '  For,'  said  he,  '  he  was  sent  out  of  the 
'  field  upon  a  private  message,  the  day  before  the 
'  battle  of  Worcester.'  The  whim  of  narrowly  escap- 
ing by  having  been  within  a  day  of  danger,  with 
other  matters  above-mentioned,  mixed  with  good 
sense,  left  me  at  a  loss  whether  I  was  more  delighted 
with  my  friend's  wisdom  or  simplicity. 

[July  5,  ijii.] 


SIR 


Spectator]  N      1 5  [Budgell 

SIR  ROGER  DE  COVERLEY 
HARE-HUNTING. 


J'o.at  ijigeiiti  clcimore  Citharon, 

Taygetique  cams 

— ViRG. 


'"F'^HOSE  who  have  searched  into  human  nature 
-*•  observe,  that  nothing  so  much  shews  the 
nobleness  of  the  soul,  as  that  its  felicity  consists  in 
action.  Every  man  has  such  an  active  principle  in 
him,  that  he  will  find  out  something  to  employ  him- 
self upon,  in  whatever  place  or  state  of  life  he  is 
posted.  I  have  heard  of  a  gentleman  who  was  under 
close  confinement  in  the  Bastile  seven  years;  during 
which  time  he  amused  himself  in  scattering  a  few 
small  pins  about  his  chamber,  gathering  them  up 
again,  and  placing  them  in  different  figures  on  the  arm 
of  a  great  chair.     He  often  told  his  friends  afterwards, 

that 


H.4RE  -  HUXTIXG.  99 

that  unless  he  had  found  out  this  piece  of  exercise,  he 
verily  believed  he  should  have  lost  his  senses. 

After  what  has  been  said,  I  need  not  inform  my 
readers,  that  Sir  Roger,  with  whose  character  I  hope 
they  are  at  present  pretty  well  acquainted,  has  in  his 
youth  gone  through  the  whole  course  of  those  rural 
diversions  which  the  country  abounds  in  ;  and  which 
seem  to  be  extremely  well  suited  to  that  laborious 
industry  a  man  may  observe  here  in  a  far  greater 
degree  than  in  towns  and  cities.  I  have  before  hinted 
at  some  of  my  friend's  exploits  :  he  has  in  his  youth- 
ful days  taken  forty  coveys  of  partridges  in  a  season  ; 
and  tired  many  a  salmon  with  a  line  consisting  but 
of  a  single  hair.  The  constant  thanks  and  good 
wishes  of  the  neighbourhood  always  attended  him,  on 
account  of  his  remarkable  enmity  towards  foxes; 
having  destroyed  more  of  those  vermin  in  one  year, 
than  it  was  thought  the  whole  country  could  have 
produced.  Indeed  the  knight  does  not  scruple  to  own 
among  his  most  intimate  friends,  that  in  order  to 
establish  his  reputation  this  way,  he  has  secretly  sent 
for  great  numbers  of  them  out  of  other  counties, 
which  he  used  to  turn  loose  about  the  country  by 
night,  that  he  might  the  better  signalise  himself  in 
their  destruction  the  next  day.     His  hunting-horses 

were 


loo  SIR  ROGER  DE  COVERLEY 

■were  the  finest  and  best  managed  in  all  these  parts: 
his  tenants  are  still  full  of  the  praises  of  a  grey  stone- 
horse  that  unhappilj'  staked  himself  several  years  since, 
and  was  buried  with  great  solemnity  in  the  orchard.' 

Sir  Roger,  being  at  present  too  old  for  fox-hunting, 
to  keep  himself  in  action,  has  disposed  of  his  beagles, 
and  got  a  pack  of  Stop-hounds.  What  these  want  in 
speed,  he  endeavours  to  make  amends  for  by  the 
deepness  of  their  mouths  and  the  variety  of  their 
notes,  which  are  suited  in  such  a  manner  to  each 
other,  that  the  whole  cry  makes  up  a  complete  con- 
cert. He  is  so  nice  in  this  particular,  that  a  gentle- 
man having  made  him  a  present  of  a  very  iine  hound 
the  other  day,  the  knight  returned  it  by  the  servant 
with  a  great  many  expressions  of  civility  ;  but  de- 
sired liini  to  tell  his  master,  that  the  dog  he  had  sent 
was  indeed  a  most  excellent  bass,  but  that  at  present 
he  only  wanted  a  counter-tenor.  Could  I  believe  my 
friend  liad  ever  read  Shakespeare,  I  should  certainly 
conclude  he  had  taken  the  hint  from  Theseus  in  the 
ivlidsummer  Night's  Dream. 


My  hounds  are  bred  out  of  the  Spartan  kind, 
So  flew'd,  so  sanded  ;  and  their  heads  are  hung 
With  ears  that  sweep  away  the  morning  dew  ; 
Crooked-knee'd  and  dew-lapp'd  like  Thessalian  bulls  ; 

Slow 


HARE-HUXTIXG.  loi 

Slow  in  pursuit,  but  match'J  ii  mouth  like  bells, 
Each  under  each.     A  ciy  inore  tuuealile 
Was  never  holla'd  to,  nor  cheer'd  with  horn. 

Sir  Roger  i.s  so  keen  at  this  sport,  that  he  has  been 
out  almost  every  day  since  I  came  down  ;  and  upon 
the  chaplain's  offering  to  lend  nie  his  easy  pad,  I  was 
prevailed  on  yesterday  morning  to  make  one  of  the 
company.  I  was  extremely  pleased,  as  we  rid  along, 
to  observe  the  general  benevolence  of  all  the  neigh- 
bourhood towards  my  friend.  The  farmers'  sons 
thought  themselves  happy  if  they  could  open  a  gate 
for  the  good  old  knight  as  he  passed  by ;  which  he 
generally  requited  with  a  nod  or  a  smile,  and  a  kind 
inquiry  after  their  fathers  and  uncles. 

After  we  had  rid  about  a  mile  from  home,  we  came 
upon  a  large  heath,  and  the  sportsmen  began  to  beat. 
They  had  done  so  for  fome  time,  when,  as  I  was  at  a 
little  distance  from  the  rest  of  the  company,  I  saw  a 
hare  pop  out  from  a  small  furze-brake  almost  under 
my  horse's  feet.  I  marked  the  way  she  took,  which 
I  endeavoured  to  make  the  company  sensible  of  by 
extending  my  arm ;  but  to  no  purpose,  until  Sir 
Roger,  who  knows  that  none  of  my  extraordinary 
motions  are  insignificant,  rode  up  to  me,  and  asked  me 
'  if  Puss  was  gone  that  way  ?  '     Upon  my  answering 

'  Yes,' 


102  SIR  ROGER  DE  COVERLEY 

'  Yes,'  he  immediately  called  in  the  dogs,  and  put 
them  upon  the  scent.  As  they  were  going  off,  I 
heard  one  of  the  country-fellows  muttering  to  his 
companion,  '  that  'twas  a  wonder  they  had  not  lost 
'  all  their  sport,  for  want  of  the  silent  gentleman's 
'  crying-^5^o/e  aiuay.^ 

This,  with  my  aversion  to  leaping  hedges,  made 
me  withdraw  to  a  rising  ground,  from  whence  I  could 
have  the  pleasure  of  the  whole  chase,  without  the 
fatigue  of  keeping  in  with  the  hounds.  The  hare 
immediately  threw  them  above  a  mile  behind  her; 
but  I  was  pleased  to  find,  that  instead  of  running 
straight  forwards,  or  in  hunter's  language,  '  flying 
'  the  countrj','  as  I  was  afraid  she  might  have  done, 
she  wheeled  about,  and  described  a  sort  of  circle  round 
the  hill  where  I  had  taken  my  station,  in  such  a 
manner  as  gave  me  a  very  distinct  view  of  the  sport. 
I  could  see  her  first  pass  by,  and  the  dogs  some  time 
afterwards  unravelling  the  whole  track  she  had  made, 
and  following  her  through  all  her  doubles.  I  was  at 
the  same  time  delighted  in  observing  that  deference 
which  the  rest  of  the  pack  paid  to  each  particular 
hound,  according  to  the  character  he  had  acquired 
amongst  them  :  if  they  were  at  a  fault,  and  an  old 
hound  of  reputation  opened  but  once,  he  was  im- 
mediately 


HARE  -  HUNTING.  loj 

mediate!}'  followed  by  the  whole  cry  ;  wliile  a  raw 
dog,  or  one  who  was  a  noted  liar,  might  have  yelped 
his  heart  out,  without  being  taken  notice  of. 

The  hare  now,  after  having  squatted  two  or  three 
times,  and  been  put  up  again  as  often,  came  still 
nearer  to  the  place  where  she  was  at  first  started. 
The  dogs  pursued  her,  and  these  were  followed  by 
the  jolly  knight,  who  rode  upon  a  white  gelding, 
encompassed  by  his  tenants  and  servants,  and  cheering 
his  hounds  with  all  the  gaiet)'  of  five-and-twenty. 
One  of  the  sportsmen  rode  up  to  me,  and  told  nie, 
that  he  was  sure  the  chase  was  almost  at  an  end,  be- 
cause the  old  dogs,  which  had  hitherto  lain  behind, 
now  headed  the  pack.  The  fellow  was  in  the  right. 
Our  hare  took  a  large  field  just  under  us,  followed  by 
the  full  cry  '  in  view.'  I  must  confess  the  brightness 
of  the  weather,  the  cheerfulness  of  everything  around 
me,  the  chiding  of  the  hounds,  which  was  returned 
upon  us  in  a  double  echo  from  two  neighbouring  hills, 
with  the  hollaing  of  the  sportsman,  and  the  sounding 
of  the  horn,  lifted  my  spirits  into  a  most  lively  plea- 
sure, which  I  freely  indulged,  because  I  was  sure  it 
■was  innocent.  If  I  was  under  any  concern,  it  was 
on  the  account  of  the  poor  hare,  that  was  now  quite 
spent,  and  almost  within  the  reach  of  her  enemies ; 

when 


104         SIR  ROGER  HARE -HUNTING. 

when  the  huntsman  getting  forward,  threw  down  his 
pole  before  the  dogs.  They  were  now  within  eight 
yards  of  that  game  which  they  had  been  pursuing  for 
almost  as  many  hours  ;  yet  on  the  signal  before-men- 
tioned they  all  made  a  sudden  stand,  and  though  they 
continued  opening  as  much  as  before,  durst  not  once 
attempt  to  pass  beyond  the  pole.  At  the  same  time 
Sir  Roger  rode  forward,  and  alighting,  took  up  the 
hare  in  his  arms ;  which  he  soon  delivered  up  to  one 
of  his  servants,  with  an  order,  if  she  could  he  kept 
alive,  to  let  her  go  in  his  great  orchard  ;  where  it 
seems  he  has  several  of  these  prisoners  of  war,  who 
live  together  in  a  very  comfortable  captivity.  I  was 
highly  pleased  to  see  the  discipline  of  the  pack,  and 
the  good-nature  of  the  knight,  who  could  not  find  in 
his  heart  to  murder  a  creature  that  had  given  him  so 
much  diversion. 

[July  13,  1711.] 


THE 


Spectator]  N       10  [Addison 

THE  CITIZEN'S   JOURNAL. 


-  fruges  consumerc  iiati. 

— HOR. 


AUGUSTUS,  a  few  moments  before  his  death, 
-  asked  his  friends  who  stood  about  him,  if  they 
thought  he  had  acted  his  part  well  ;  and  upon  re- 
ceiving such  an  answer  as  was  due  to  his  extraordinary 
merit — '  Let  me  then,'  says  he,  '  go  oil"  the  stage 
'with  vour  applause;  '  using  the  expression  with 
which  the  Roman  actors  made  their  Exit  at  the  con- 
clusion of  a  dramatic  piece.  I  could  wish  that  men, 
while  they  are  in  health,  would  consider  well  the 
nature  of  the  part  tliev  are  engaged  in,  and  what 
figure  it  will  make  in  the  minds  of  those  they  leave 
behind  them  :  whether  it  was  worth  coming  into  the 
world  for ;  whether  it  be  suitable  to  a  reasonable 
being ;  in  short,  whether  it  appears  graceful  in  this 

life, 


io6  THE  CrnZEK'S  JOURNAL. 

life,  or  will  turn  to  an  advantage  in  the  next.  Let 
the  sycophant,  or  buffoon,  the  satirist,  or  the  good 
companion,  consider  with  himself,  when  his  body 
shall  be  laid  in  the  grave,  and  his  soul  pass  into  an- 
other state  of  existence,  how  much  it  would  redound 
to  his  praise  to  have  it  said  of  him,  that  no  man  in 
England  eat  better,  that  he  had  an  admirable  talent  at 
turning  his  friends  into  ridicule,  that  nobody  outdid 
him  at  an  ill-natured  jest,  or  that  he  never  went  to 
bed  before  he  had  despatched  his  third  bottle.  These 
are,  however,  very  common  funeral  orations,  and 
eulogiums  on  deceased  persons  who  have  acted  among 
mankind  with  some  figure  and  reputation. 

But  if  we  look  into  the  bulk  of  our  species,  they 
are  such  as  are  not  likely  to  be  remembered  a  moment 
after  their  disappearance.  They  leave  behind  them 
no  traces  of  their  existence,  but  are  forgotten  as 
though  they  had  never  been.  They  are  neither 
wanted  by  the  poor,  regretted  by  the  rich,  nor  cele- 
brated by  the  learned.  They  are  neither  missed  in 
the  commonwealth,  nor  lamented  by  private  persons. 
Their  actions  are  of  no  significancy  to  mankind,  and 
might  have  been  performed  by  creatures  of  much  less 
dignity  than  those  who  are  distinguished  by  the 
faculty  of  reason.     An  eminent  French  author  speaks 

somewhere 


THE  CITIZEN'S  JOURXAL.  107 

somewhere  to  the  following  purpose  :  '  I  have  often 
'  seen  from  niv  chamber-window  two  noble  creatures, 
'  both  of  them  of  an  erect  count-nance,  and  endowed 
'  with  reason.  These  two  intellectual  beings  are 
'  employed  from  morning  to  night,  in  rubbing  two 
'smooth  stones  upon  one  another;  that  is,  as  the 
'  vulgar  phrase  it,  in  polishing  marble.' 

My  friend.  Sir  Andrew  Freeport,  as  we  were  sitting 
in  the  club  last  night,  gave  us  an  account  of  a  sober 
citizen,  who  died  a  few  days  since.  This  honest  man 
being  of  greater  consequence  in  his  own  thoughts, 
than  in  the  eye  of  the  world,  had  for  some  years  past 
kept  a  journal  of  his  life.  Sir  Andrew  shewed  us  one 
week  of  it.  Since  the  occurrences  set  down  in  it 
mark  out  such  a  road  of  action  as  that  I  have  been 
speaking  of,  I  shall  present  my  reader  with  a  faithlul 
copy  of  it ;  after  having  first  informed  him,  that  the 
deceased  person  had  in  his  youth  been  bred  to  trade, 
but  finding  himself  not  so  well  turned  for  business, 
he  had  for  several  years  last  past  lived  altogether  upon 
a  moderate  annuity. 

Monday,  eight  a-clock.  I  put  on  my  clothes,  and 
walked  into  the  parlour. 


Ni: 


io8  THE  CITIZEN'S  JOURNAL. 

Nine  a-clock  ditto.  Tied  my  knee-strings,  and 
washed  my  hands. 

Hours  ten.  eleven,  and  twelve.  Smoked  three 
pipes  of  Virginia.  Read  the  Supplement  and  Daily 
Courant.  Things  go  ill  in  the  north.  Mr.  Nisby's 
opinion  thereupon. 

One  a-clock  in  the  afternoon.  Chid  Ralph  for  mis- 
laying my  tobacco-box. 

Two  a-clock.  Sat  down  to  dinner.  Mem.  Too 
many  plums,  and  no  suet. 

From  three  to  four.     Took  my  afternoon's  nap. 

From  four  to  six.  Walked  into  the  fields.  Wind, 
S.  S.  E. 

From  six  to  ten.  At  the  club.  Mr.  Nisby's 
opinion  about  the  peace. 

Ten  a-clock.     Went  to  bed,  slept  sound. 

Tuesday,  being  holiday,  eight  a-clock.  Rose  as 
usual. 

Nine  a-clock.  Washed  hands  and  face,  shaved,  put 
on  my  double-soled  shoes. 

Ten,  eleven,  twelve.  Took  a  walk  to  Isling- 
ton. 

One.     Took  a  pot  of  mother  Cob's  mild. 

Between    two   and   three.     Returned,   dined   on  a 

knuckle 


THE  CITIZEX'S  JOURXAL.  109 

knuckle  of  veal  and  bacon.  Mem.  Sprouts  want- 
ing. 

Three.     Nap  as  usual. 

From  four  to  six.  Coffee-house.  Rc.id  the  news. 
A  dish  of  twist.     Grand  Yi/ier  strangled. 

From  six  to  ten.  At  the  club.  Mr.  Nisby's  ac- 
count of  the  Great  Turk. 

Ten.     Dream  of  the  Grand  Vizier.     Broken  sleep. 

Wednesday,  eight  a-clock.  Tongue  of  my  shoe- 
huckle  broke.     Hands  but  not  face. 

Nine.  Paid  off  the  butcl-.er's  bill.  Mem.  To  be 
allowed  lor  the  last  leg  of  mutton. 

Ten,  eleven.  At  the  coffee-house.  More  work  in 
the  north.  Stranger  in  a  black  wig  asked  me  how 
stocks  went. 

From  twelve  to  one.  Walked  in  the  fields.  Wind 
to  the  south. 

From  one  to  two.     Smoked  a  pipe  and  a  half. 

Two.     Dined  as  usual.     Stomach  good. 

Three.  J^ap  broke  by  the  falling  of  a  pewter  dish. 
Mem.     Cook-maid  in  love,  and  grown  careless. 

From  four  to  six.  At  the  coffee-house.  Advice 
from  Smyrna,  that  the  Grand  Vizier  was  first  of  all 
strangled,  and  afterwards  beheaded. 

Six 


no  THE  CITIZEN'S  JOURNAL. 

Six  a-clock  in  the  evening.  Was  half  an  hour  in 
the  club  before  any  body  else  came.  Mr.  Nisbv  of 
opinion  that  the  Grand  Vizier  was  not  strangled  the 
sixth  instant. 

Ten  at  night.  Went  to  bed.  Slept  without  wak- 
ing until  nine  next  morning. 

Thursday,  nine  a-clock.  Staved  within  until  two 
a-clock  for  Sir  Timothy  ;  who  did  not  bring  me  my 
annuity  according  to  his  promise. 

Two  in  the  afternoon.  Sat  down  to  dinner.  Loss 
of  appetite.     Small-beer  sour.     Beef  over-corned. 

Three.     Could  not  take  my  nap. 

Four  and  five.  Gave  Ralph  a  box  on  the  ear. 
Turned  off  my  cook-maid.  Sent  a  messenger  to  Sir 
Timothy.  Mem.  I  did  not  go  to  the  club  to-night. 
Went  to  bed  at  nine  a-clock. 

Friday.  Passed  the  morning  in  meditation  upon 
Sir  Timothy,  who  was  with  me  a  quarter  before 
twelve. 

Twelve  a-clock.  Bought  a  new  head  to  my  cane, 
and  a  tongue  to  my  buckle.  Drank  a  glass  of  purl 
to  recover  appetite. 

Two  and  three.     Dined,  and  slept  well. 

From 


THE  CITIZEN'S  JOURNAL.  in 

From  four  to  six.  Went  to  the  coffee-house.  Met 
Mr.  Nisby  there.  Smoked  several  pipes.  Mr.  Nisby 
of  opinion  that  laced  coffee  is  bad  for  the  head. 

Six  a-clock.     At  the  club  as  steward.     Sat  late. 

Twelve  a-clock.  Went  to  bed,  dreamt  that  I  drank 
small  beer  with  the  Grand  Vizier. 

Saturday.  Waked  at  eleven,  walked  in  the  fields, 
wind  N.  E. 

Twelve.     Caught  in  a  shower. 

One  in  the  Afternoon.  Returned  home,  and  dried 
myself. 

Two.  Mr.  Nisby  dined  with  me.  First  course, 
marrow-bones;  second,  ox-cheek,  '  with  a  bottle  of 
Brooks  and  Hellier. 

Three  a-clock.     Overslept  myself. 

Six.  Went  to  the  club.  Like  to  have  fallen  into 
a  gutter.     Grand  Vizier  certainly  dead,  &c. 

I  question  not  but  the  reader  will  be  surprised  to 
find  the  above-mentioned  journalist  taking  so  much 
care  of  a  life  that  was  filled  with  such  inconsiderable 
actions,  and  received  so  very  small  improvements ; 
and  yet,  if  we  look  into  the  behaviour  of  many  whom 
we  d.iily  converse  with,  we  shall  find  that  most  of 

their 


112  THE  CITIZEN'S  JOURNAL. 

their  liours  are  taken  up  in  those  three  important 
articles  of  eating,  drinking,  and  sleeping.  I  do 
not  suppose  than  a  man  loses  his  time,  who  is  not 
engaged  in  public  affairs,  or  in  an  illustrious  course  of 
action.  On  the  contrary,  I  believe  our  hours  may 
very  often  be  more  profitably  laid  out  in  such  transac- 
tions as  make  no  figure  in  the  world,  than  in  such  as 
are  apt  to  draw  upon  them  the  attention  of  mankind. 
One  may  become  wiser  and  better  by  several  methods 
of  employing  one's  self  in  secrecy  and  silence,  and  do 
what  is  laudable  without  noise  or  ostentation.  I 
would,  however,  recommend  to  every  one  of  my 
readers,  the  keeping  a  journal  of  their  lives  for  one 
week,  and  setting  down  punctually  their  whole  series 
of  employments  during  that  space  of  time.  This  kind 
of  self-examination  would  give  them  a  true  state  of 
themselves,  and  incline  them  to  consider  seriously 
what  they  are  about.  One  day  would  rectify  the 
omissions  of  another,  and  make  a  man  weigh  all  those 
indifferent  act'ons,  which,  though  they  are  easily  tor- 
gotten,  must  certainly  be  accounted  for. 

[March  4,  1712.] 


THE 


Spectator]  N     1 7  [Addison 

THE  FINE  LADY'S  JOURNAL. 


Modo  vir,  modo  focmina  

— ViRG. 


'  I  "HE  journal  with  which  I  presented  my  reader 
-^  on  Tuesday  last,  has  brought  me  in  several 
letters,  with  accounts  of  many  private  lives  cast  into 
that  form.  I  have  the  Rake's  Journal,  the  Sot's 
Journal,  and  among  several  others  a  very  curious  piece, 
entitled — '  The  Journal  of  a  Mohock.'  By  these  in- 
stances I  find  that  the  intention  of  my  last  Tuesday's 
paper  has  been  mistaken  by  many  of  my  readers.  I 
did  not  design  so  much  to  expose  vice  as  idleness,  and 
a'med  at  those  persons  who  pass  away  their  time 
rather  in  trifle  and  impertinence,  than  in  crimes  and 
immoralities.  Offences  of  this  latter  kmd  are  not  to 
be  dallied  with,  or  treated  in  so  ludicrous  a  manner. 
la  short,  my  journal  only  holds  up  folly  to  the  light, 

and 
10 


114  I'HE  FINE  LADY'S  JOURNAL. 

and  shews  the  disagreeableness  of  such  actions  as  are 
indifferent  in  themselves,  and  blameable  only  as  they 
proceed  from  creatures  endowed  with  reason. 

My  following  correspondent,  who  calls  herself 
Clarinda,  is  such  a  journalist  as  I  require  :  she  seems 
by  her  letter  to  be  placed  in  a  modish  state  of  indiffer- 
ence between  vice  and  virtue,  and  to  be  susceptible  of 
either,  were  there  proper  pains  taken  with  her.  Had 
her  journal  been  filled  with  gallantries,  or  such  occur- 
rences as  had  shewn  her  wholly  divested  of  her  natural 
innocence,  notwithstanding  it  might  have  been  more 
pleasing  to  the  generality  of  readers,  I  should  not 
have  published  it ;  but  as  it  is  only  the  picture  of  a 
life  filled  with  a  fashionable  kind  of  gaiety  and  lazi- 
ness, I  shall  set  down  five  days  of  it,  as  I  have  re- 
ceived it  from  the  hand  of  my  fair  correspondent. 

DEAR  MR.   SPECTATOR, 

"Y'OU  having  set  your  readers  an  exercise  in  one  of 
your  last  week's  papers,  I  have  performed  mine 
according  to  your  orders,  and  herewith  send  it  you 
inclosed.  You  must  know,  Mr.  Spectator,  that  I  am 
a  maiden  lady  of  a  good  fortune,  who  have  had  several 
matches  offered  me  for  these  ten  years  last  past,  and 
have  at  present  warm  applications  made  to  me  bv  a 

very 


THE  FINE  LADY'S  JOURNAL.  115 

very  pretty  fellow.  As  I  am  at  my  own  disposal,  I 
come  up  to  town  every  winter,  and  pass  my  time  in 
it  after  the  manner   you  will  find  in  the  following 

journal,  which  I  began  to  write  upon  the  very  day 
after  vour  Spectator  upon  that  subject. 

Tuesday  night.  Could  not  go  to  sleep  till  one  in 
the  morning  for  thinking  of  my  journal. 

Wednesday.  From  eight  till  ten.  Drank  two 
dishes  of  chocolate  in  bed,  and  fell  asleep  after  them. 

From  ten  to  eleven.  Eat  a  slice  of  bread  and 
butter,  drank  a  dish  of  bohea,  read  the  Spectator. 

From  eleven  to  one.  At  my  toilette,  tried  a  new 
head.  Gave  orders  for  Yen}'  to  be  combed  and 
washed.     Mem.     I  look  best  in  blue. 

From  one  till  half  an  hour  aft-e^  two.  Drove  to 
the  Change.     Cheapened  a  couple  of  fans. 

Till  four.  At  dinner.  Mem.  Mr.  Froth  passed 
by  in  his  new  liveries. 

From  four  to  six.  Dressed,  paid  a  visit  to  old 
Lady  Blithe  and  her  sister,  having  before  heard  they 
were  gone  out  of  town  that  d.iy. 

From  six  to  eleven.  At  Basset.  Mem.  Never 
set  again  upon  the  ace  of  diamonds. 

Thursday, 


ii6  THE  FINE  LADY'S  JOURNAL. 

Thursday.  From  eleven  at  night  to  eight  in  the 
morning.     Dreamed  tliat  I  punted  to  Mr.  Froth. 

From  eight  to  ten.  Chocolate.  Read  two  acts  in 
Aurengzebe  a-bed. 

From  ten  to  eleven.  Tea-table.  Read  the  play- 
bills. Received  a  letter  from  Mr.  Froth.  Mem. 
Locked  it  up  in  my  strong  box. 

Rest  of  the  morning.  Fontange,  the  tire-woman, 
her  account  of  my  Lady  Blithe's  wash.  Broke  a  tooth 
in  my  little  tortoise-shell  comb.  Sent  Frank  to  know 
how  my  Lady  Hectic  rested  after  her  monkey's  leap- 
ing out  at  window.  Looked  pale.  Fontange  tells  me 
my  glass  is  not  true.  Dressed  by  three. 
■,  From  three  to  four.  Dinner  cold  before  I  sat 
down. 

From  four  to  eleven.  Saw  company.  Mr.  Froth's 
opinion  of  Milton.  His  .account  of  the  Mohocks. 
His  fancy  for  a  pin-cushion.  Picture  in  the  lid  of  his 
snufl-box.  Old  Lady  Faddle  promises  me  her  woman 
to  cut  my  hair.     Lost  five  guineas  at  crimp. 

Twelve  a'clock  at  night.     Went  to  bed. 

Friday.  Eight  in  the  morning.  A-bed.  Read 
over  all  Mr.  Froth's  letters. 

Ten  a'clock.     Staid  within  all  day,  not  at  home. 

From 


THE  FIXE  LADY'S  JOURNAL.         117 

From  ten  to  twelve.  In  conference  with  my 
mantua-maker.  Sorted  a  suit  of  ribbons.  Broke  my 
blue  china  cup. 

From  twelve  to  one.  Shut  myself  up  in  my 
chamber,  practised  Lady  Betty  Modely's  skuttle. 

One  in  the  afternoon.  Called  for  my  flowered 
handkerchief.  Worked  half  a  violet-leaf  in  it.  Eyes 
ached  and  head  out  of  order.  Threw  by  my  work, 
and  read  over  the  remaining  part  of  Aurengzebe. 

From  three  to  four.     Dined. 

From  four  to  twelve.  Changed  my  mind,  dressed, 
went  abroad,  and  played  at  crimp  till  midnight. 
Found  Mrs.  Spitely  at  home.  Conversation  :  Mrs. 
Brilliant's  necklace  false  stones.  Old  Lady  Loveday 
going  to  be  married  to  a  young  fellow  that  is  not 
worth  a  groat.  Miss  Prue  gone  into  the  country. 
Tom  Townley  has  red  hair.  Mem.  Mrs.  Spitely 
whispered  in  my  ear  that  she  had  something  to  tell 
me  about  Mr.  Froth,  I  am  sure  it  is  not  true. 

Between  twelve  and  one.  Dreamed  that  Mr.  Froth 
lay  at  my  feet,  and  called  me  Indamora. 

Saturday.  Rose  at  eight  a'clock  in  the  morning. 
Sat  down  to  my  toilette. 

From  eight  to  nine.     Shifted  a  patch  for  half  an 

hour 


ii8  THE  FIXE  LADY'S  JOURNAL. 

hour  before  I  could  determine  it.  Fixed  it  above  my 
left  eye-brow. 

From  nine  to  twelve.     Drank  my  tea,  and  dressed. 

From  twelve  to  two.  At  chapel.  A  great  deal  of 
good  company.  Mem.  The  third  air  in  the  new 
opera.     Lady  Blithe  dressed  frightfully. 

From  three  to  four.  Dined.  Miss  Kitty  called 
upon  me  to  go  to  the  opera  before  I  was  risen  from 
table. 

From  dinner  to  six.  Drank,  tea.  Turned  off  a 
footman  for  being  rude  to  Veny. 

Six  a'clock.  Went  to  the  opera.  I  did  not  see 
Mr.  Froth  till  the  beginning  of  the  second  act.  Mr. 
Froth  talked  to  a  gentleman  in  a  black  wig.  Bowed 
to  a  lady  in  the  front  box.  Mr.  Froth  and  his  friend 
clapped  Nicolini  in  the  third  act.  Mr.  Froth  cried 
out  Ancora.  Mr  Froth  led  me  to  my  chair.  I  think 
he  squeezed  my  hand. 

Eleven  at  night.  Went  to  bed.  Melancholy 
dreams.     Methought  Nicolini  said  he  was  Mr.  Froth. 

Sunday.     Indisposed. 

Monday.  Eight  a'clock.  Waked  by  Miss  Kitty. 
Aurengzebe  lay  upon  the  chair  by  me.     Kitty  repeated 

without 


THE  FINE  LADY'S  JOURNAL.         119 

without  book  the  eight  best  lines  in  the  play.  Went 
in  our  mobs  to  the  dumb  man  according  to  appoint- 
ment. Told  me  that  my  lover's  name  began  with  a 
G.  Mem.  The  conjurer  was  within  a  letter  of  Mr. 
Froth's  name,  iScc. 

.  Upon  looking  back  into  this  my  journal,  I  find  that 
I  am  at  a  loss  to  know  whether  I  pass  my  time  well 
or  ill ;  and  indeed  never  thought  of  considering  liow 
I  did  it  before  I  perused  your  speculation  upon  that 
subject.  I  scarce  find  a  single  action  in  these  five 
diys  that  I  can  thoroughly  approve  of,  except  the 
working  upon  the  violet-leaf,  which  I  am  resolved  to 
finish  the  first  day  I  am  at  leisure.  As  for  Mr.  Froth 
and  Veny,  I  did  not  think  they  took  up  so  much  of 
my  time  and  thoughts  as  I  find  they  do  upon  my 
journal.  The  latter  of  them  I  will  turn  off,  if  you 
insist  upon  it;  and  if  Mr.  Froth  docs  not  bring  matters 
to  a  conclusion  very  suddenly,  I  will  not  let  my  life 
run  away  in  a  dream.     Your  humble  servant, 

Clarinda. 

To  resume  one  of  the  morals  of  my  first  paper,  and 
to  confirm  Clarinda  in  her  good  inclinations,  I  would 
have  her  consider  what  a  pretty  figure  she  would  make 


120  THE  FINE  LADY'S  JOURNAL. 

amon^  posterity,  were  the  history  of  her  whole  life 
published  like  these  five  days  of  it.  I  shall  conclude 
my  paper  with  an  epitaph  written  by  an  uncertain 
author  on  Sir  Philip  Sidney's  sister,  a  lady,  who 
seems  to  have  been  of  a  temper  very  much  different 
from  that  of  Clarinda.  The  last  thought  of  it  is  so 
very  noble,  that  I  dare  say  my  reader  will  pardon  me 
the  quotation. 

ON   THE   COUNTESS   DOWAGER    OF  PEMBROKE. 

T  TNDERNEATH  this  marble  hearse 

Lies  the  subject  of  all  verse, 
Sidney's  sister,  Pembroke's  mother: 
Death,  ere  thou  hast  kill'd  another, 
Fair,  and  learned,  and  good  as  she. 
Time  shall  throw  a  dart  at  thee. 

[March  ii,  1712.] 


SIR 


Spectator]  N     Io  [Addison 

SIR  ROGER  DE  COVERLEY 
AT  THE  PLAY. 


Respicerc  exemplar  vitie  mcniiiique  jitbibo 
Dostum  imitatorem,  et  vcras  hinc  diicerc  voces. 

— HOR. 


MY  friend  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley,  when  we  last 
met  together  at  the  club,  told  me  that  he  had 
a  great  mind  to  see  the  new  tragedy  with  me,  assur- 
ing me,  at  the  same  time,  that  he  had  not  been  at  a 
play  these  twenty  years.  '  The  last  I  saw,'  said  Sir 
Roger,  '  was  the  Committee,  which  I  should  not  have 
'  gone  to  neither,  had  not  I  been  told  before-hand, 
'  that  it  was  a  good  Church  of  England  comedy.' 
He  then  proceeded  to  inquire  of  me  who  this  dis- 
tressed mother  was ;  and  upon  hearing  that  she  was 
Hector's  widow,  he  tod  me  that  her  husband  was  a 
brave  man,  and  that  when  he  was  a  school-boy  he  had 

read 


122  SIR  ROGER  DE  COVERLEY 

read  his  life  at  the  end  of  the  dictionary.  My  friend 
asked  me,  in  the  next  place,  if  there  would  not  be 
some  danger  in  coming  home  late,  in  ca:e  the 
Mohocks  should  be  abroad.  '  I  assure  you,'  says  he, 
'  I  thought  I  had  fallen  into  their  hands  last  night ; 

*  for  I  observed  two  or  three  lusty  black  men  that 
'  followed  me  half-way  up  Fleet  Street,  and  mended 

*  their  pace  behind  me,  in  proportion  as  I  put  on  to  get 
'  away  from  them.  You  must  know,'  continued  the 
knight  with  a  smile,  '  I  fancied  they  had  a  mind  to 

*  biini  me ;  for  I  remember  an  honest  gentleman  in 
'  my  neighbourhood,  who  was  served  such  a  trick  in 

*  King  Charles  the  Second's  time  ;   for  which  reason 

*  he  has  not  ventured  himself  in  town  ever  since.  I 
'  might  have  shewn  them  very  good  sport,  had  thij 

*  been  their  design  ;  for  as  I  am  an  old  fox-hunter,  I 
'  should  have  turned  and  dodged,  and  have  played 
'  them  a  thousand  tricks  they  had  never  seen  in  their 

*  lives  before.'  Sir  Roger  added,  that  if  these  gentle- 
men had  any  such  intention,  they'did  not  succeed  very 
•well  in  it :  '  for  I  threw  them  out,'  says  he,  '  at  the 
'  end  of  Norfolk  Street,  where  I  doubled  the  corner 
'  and  got  shelter  in  my  lodgings  before  they  could 
'  imagine  what  was  become  of  me.  However,'  says 
the  knight,  '  if  Captain  Sentry  will  make  one  with  us 

'  to-morrow 


AT  THE  PLAY.  12 j 

'  to-morrow  niglit,  and  you  will  boih  of  you  call 
'  upon  me  about  four  o'clock,  that  wc  may  be  at  ilic 
'  house  before  it  is  full,  I  will  have  my  own  coach  in 
'  readiness  to  attend  you,  for  John  tells  me  he  has  got 
'  the  fore-wheels  mended.' 

The  Captain,  who  did  not  fail  to  meet  me  there  at 
the  appointed  hour,  bid  Sir  Roger  fear  nothing,  for 
that  he  had  put  on  the  same  sword  which  he  made 
use  of  at  the  battle  of  Steenkirk.  Sir  Roger's  servants, 
and  among  the  rest  my  old  friend  the  butler,  had,  I 
found,  provided  themselves  with  good  oaken  p'ants, 
to  attend  their  master  upon  this  occasion.  When  he 
had  placed  him  in  his  coach,  with  myself  at  his  left 
hand,  the  Captain  before  him,  and  his  butler  at  the 
head  of  his  footmen  in  the  rear,  we  convoyed  him  in 
safety  to  the  play-house,  where,  after  having  marched 
up  the  entry  in  good  order,  the  Captain  and  I  went 
in  with  him,  and  seated  hira  betwi.xt  us  in  the  pit. 
As  soon  as  the  house  was  full,  and  the  candles 
lighted,  my  old  friend  stood  up  and  looked  about 
him  with  that  pleasure,  which  a  mind  seasoned  with 
humanity  naturally  feels  in  itself,  at  the  sight  of 
a  multitude  of  people  who  seem  pleased  with  one 
another,  and  partake  of  the  same  common  entertain- 
ment.    I  could  not  but  fancy  to  myself,  as  the  old 

man 


124  SIR  ROGER  DF.  COVERLEY 

man  stood  up  in  the  middle  of  the  pit,  that  he  made  a 
very  proper  centre  to  a  tragic  audience.  Upon  the 
entering  of  Pyrihus,  the  knight  told  me  that  he  did 
not  believe  the  King  of  France  himself  had  a  better 
strut.  I  was  indeed  very  attentive  to  my  old  friend's 
remarks,  because  I  looked  upon  them  as  a  piece  of 
natural  criticism,  and  was  well  pleased  to  hear  him, 
at  the  conclusion  of  almost  every  scene,  telling  ma 
that  he  could  not  imagine  how  the  play  would  end. 
One  while  he  appeared  much  concerned  for  An- 
dromache ;  and  a  little  while  after  as  much  for 
Hermione  ;  and  was  extremely  puzzled  to  think  what 
would  become  of  Pyrrhus. 

When  Sir  Roger  saw  Andromache's  obstinate  refusal 
to  her  lover's  importunities,  he  whispered  me  in  the  ear, 
that  he  was  sure  she  would  never  have  him  ;  to  which 
lie  added,  with  a  more  than  ordinary  vehemence — 
'  You  can't  imagine,  Sir,  what  'tis  to  have  to  do  with 
'  a  widow.'  Upon  Pvrrhus's  threatening  afterwards 
to  leave  her,  the  knight  shook  his  head  and  muttered 
to  himself — '  Ay,  do  if  you  can.'  This  part  dwelt  so 
much  upon  my  friend's  imagination,  that  at  the  close 
of  the  third  act,  as  I  was  thinking  of  something  else, 
he  whispered  me  in  the  ear — '  These  widows,  Sir,  are 
*  the   most  perverse  creatures   in    the   world.      But 

*  pray,' 


AT  THE  PLAY.  125 

'  pray,'  says  he,  '  vou  that  are  a  critic,  is  the  play 
'  according  to  your  dramatic  rules,  as  you  call  them  ? 
'  Should  your  people  in  tragedy  always  talk  to  be 
'  understood?  Why,  there  h  not  a  single  sentence 
'  in  this  play  that  I  do  not  know  tl'.c  meaning  of.' 

The  fourth  act  very  luckily  begun  before  I  had  time 
to  give  the  old  gentleman  an  answer  :  '  Well,'  says 
the  knight,  sitting  down  with  great  satisfaction,  '  I 
'  suppose  we  are  now  to  see  Hector's  ghost.'  He  then 
renewed  his  attention,  and,  from  time  to  time,  fell  a 
praising  the  widow.  He  made,  indeed,  a  little  mis- 
take as  to  one  of  her  pages,  whom,  at  his  first  enter- 
ing, he  took  for  Astyanax  ;  but  quickly  set  himself 
right  in  that  particular,  though,  at  the  same  time,  he 
owned  he  should  have  been  very  glad  to  have  seen 
the  little  boy,  who,  says  he,  must  needs  be  a  fine 
child  by  the  account  that  is  given  of  him.  Upon 
Hermione's  going  off"  with  a  menace  to  Pyrrhus,  the 
audience  gave  a  loud  clap,  to  which  Sir  Roger  added 
— '  On  my  word,  a  notable  young  baggage  !  ' 

As  there  was  a  very  remarkable  silence  and  stillness 
in  the  audience  during  the  whole  action,  it  was 
natural  for  them  to  take  the  opportunity  of  the  inter- 
vals between  the  acts,  to  express  their  opinion  of  the 
players,   and  of  their   respective   parts.      Sir    Roger 

hearing 


126  SIR  ROGER  DE  COVERLEY 

hearing  a  cluster  of  them  praise  Orestes,  struck  in 
-,vith  them,  and  tolJ  them,  tliat  lie  thought  his  friend 
Pylades  was  a  very  sensible  man  ;  as  they  were  after- 
wards applauding  Pyrrhus,  Sir  Roger  put  in  a  second 
time:  'And  let  mc  tell  you,'  says  he,  '  though  he 
'  speaks  but  little,  I  like  the  old  fellow  in  whiskers  as 
'  well  as  any  of  them.'  Captain  Sentry  seeing  two 
or  three  wags,  who  sat  near  us,  lean  with  an  attentive 
ear  towards  Sir  Roger,  and  fearing  lest  they  should 
smoke  the  knight,  plucked  him  by  the  elbow,  and 
whispered  something  in  his  ear,  that  lasted  till  the 
opening  of  the  fifth  act.  The  knight  was  wonderfully 
attentive  to  the  account  which  Orestes  gives  of 
Pyrrhus's  death  ;  and  at  the  conclusion  of  it,  told  me 
it  \yas  such  a  bloody  piece  of  work,  that  he  \vas  glad 
it  was  not  done  upon  the  stage.  Seeing  afterwards 
Orestes  in  his  raving  fit,  he  grew  more  than  ordinary 
serious,  and  took  occasion  to  moralise  ('n  his  way) 
upon  an  evil  conscience  ;  adding,  that  Orestes,  in  his 
madness,  looked  as  if  he  saw  something. 

As  we  were  the  first  that  came  into  the  house,  so 
we  were  the  last  that  went  out  of  it ;  being  resolved 
to  have  a  clear  passage  for  our  old  friend,  whom  we 
did  not  care  to  venture  among  the  justling  of  the 
crowd.     Sir  Roger  went  out  fully  satisfied  with  his 

entertainment. 


AT  THE  PLAY.  ■  127 

entertainment,  and  we  guarded  him  to  his  lodging  in 
the  same  manner  that  we  brought  him  to  the  play- 
house ;  being  highly  pleased,  for  my  own  part,  not 
only  with  the  performance  of  the  excellent  piece  which 
had  been  presented,  but  with  the  satisfaction  which  it 
had  given  the  o'.d  man. 

[Alaich  2 J,  1 712.] 


Spectator]  N°  TQ  [Steele 

A  DAY'S  RAMBLE  IN  LONDON. 


Sine  ine,  vaciviuii  teii^piis  ne  quod  dem  viibi 
Laloris.  ^Ter. 


T  T  is  an  inexpressible  pleasure  to  know  a  little  of 
-*-  the  world,  and  be  of  no  character  or  signiticancy 
in  it. 

To  be  ever  unconcerned,  and  ever  looking  on  new 
objects  with  an  endless  curiosity,  is  a  delight  known 
only  to  those  who  are  turned  for  speculation  :  nav, 
they  who  enjoy  it,  must  value  things  only  as  they 
are  the  objects  of  speculation,  without  drawing  any 
worldly  advantage  to  themselves  from  them,  but  just 
as  they  are  what  contribute  to  their  amusements,  or 
the  improvement  of  the  mind.  I  lav  one  night  last 
week  at  Richmond  ;  and  being  restless,  not  out  of 
dissatisfaction,  but  a  certain  busv  inclination  one 
sometimes  has,  I  rose  at  four  in  the  morning,  and 

took 


A  DAY'S  RAMBLE  IN  LONDON.        129 

took  boat  for  London,  with  a  resolution  to  rove  by 
boat  and  coach  for  the  next  four  and  twenty  hours, 
until  the  many  different  objects  I  must  needs  meet 
with  should  tire  my  imagination,  and  give  me  an 
inclination  to  a  repose  more  profound  than  I  was  at 
that  time  capable  of.  I  beg  people's  pardon  for  an 
odd  humour  I  am  guilty  of,  and  was  often  that  day, 
which  is  saluting  any  person  whom  I  like,  whether  I 
know  him  or  not.  This  is  a  particularity  would  be 
tolerated  in  me,  if  they  considered  that  the  greatest 
pleasure  I  know  I  receive  at  my  ej'es,  and  that  I  am 
obliged  to  an  agreeable  person  for  coming  abroad  into 
my  view,  as  another  is  for  a  visit  of  conversation  at 
their  own  houses. 

The  hours  of  the  day  and  night  are  taken  up  in  the 
cities  of  London  and  Westminster,  by  people  as  differ- 
ent from  each  other  as  those  who  are  born  in  different 
centuries.  Men  of  six  a-clock  give  way  to  those 
of  nine,  they  of  nine  to  the  generation  of  twelve,  and 
they  of  twelve  disappear,  and  make  room  for  the 
fashionable  world  who  have  made  two  a-clock  the 
noon  of  the  day. 

When  we  first  put  off  from  shore,  we  soon  fell  in 
with  a  fleet  of  gardeners  bound  for  the  several  market- 
ports  of  London  ;  and  it  was  the  most  pleasing  scene 

imaginable 
11 


I30       A  DAY'S  RAMBLE  IN  LONDON. 

imaginable  to  see  the  cheerfulness  with  which  those 
industrious  people  plied  their  way  to  a  certain  sale  of 
their  goods.  The  banks  on  each  side  are  as  well 
peopled,  and  beautified  with  as  agreeable  plantations 
as  any  spot  on  the  earth  ;  but  the  Thames  itself, 
loaded  with  the  product  of  each  shore,  added  very 
much  to  the  landscape.  It  was  very  easy  to  observe 
by  their  sailing,  and  the  countenances  of  the  ruddy 
virgins,  who  were  super-cargoes,  the  parts  of  the  town 
to  which  they  were  bound.  There  was  an  air  in  the 
purveyors  for  Covent  Garden,  who  frequently  converse 
with  morning  rakes,  very  unlike  the  seemly  sobriety 
of  those  bound  for  Stocks  Market. 

Nothing  remarkable  happened  in  our  voyage  ;  but 
1  landed  with  ten  sail  of  apricot  boats  at  Strand 
Bridge,  after  having  put  in  at  Nine-Elms,  and  taken 
in  melons,  consigned  by  Mr.  Cuffe  of  that  place,  to 
Sarah  Sewell  and  company,  at  their  stall  in  Covent 
Garden.  We  arrived  at  Strand- Bridge  at  six  of  the 
clock,  and  were  unloading,  when  the  hackney-coach- 
men of  the  foregoing  night  took  their  leave  of  each 
other  at  the  Dark-house,  to  go  to  bed  before  the  day 
was  too  far  spent.  Chimney-sweepers  passed  by  us 
as  we  made  up  to  the  market,  and  some  raillery  hap- 
pened between  one   of  the  fruit-wenches  and   those 

black 


A  DAY'S  RAMBLE  IN  LONDON.        151 

black  men,  about  the  Devil  and  Eve,  with  allusion  to 
their  several  professions.  I  could  not  believe  any 
place  more  entertaining  than  Covent  Garden  ;  where 
I  strolled  from  one  fruit  shop  to  another,  with  crowds 
of  agreeable  young  women  around  me,  who  were 
purchasing  fruit  for  their  respective  families.  It  was 
almost  eight  of  the  clock  before  I  could  leave  that 
variety  of  objects.  I  took  coach  and  followed  a  young 
lady,  who  tripped  into  another  just  before  me,  at- 
tended by  her  maid.  I  saw  immediately  she  was  of 
the  family  of  the  Vain-loves.  There  are  a  set  of  these 
who  of  all  things  affect  the  play  of  Blindman's-bufF, 
and  le.iding  men  into  love  for  they  not  whom,  who 
are  fled  they  know  not  where.  This  sort  of  woman 
is  usually  a  jaunty  slattern  ;  she  hangs  on  her  clothes, 
plays  her  head,  varies  her  posture,  and  changes  place 
incessantly  ;  and  all  with  an  appearance  of  striving  at 
the  same  time  to  hide  herself,  and  yet  give  you  to 
understand  she  is  in  humour  to  laugh  at  you.  You 
must  have  often  seen  the  coachmen  make  signs  with 
their  fingers  as  they  drive  by  each  other,  to  intimate 
how  much  they  have  got  that  da)'.  They  can  carry 
on  that  language  to  give  intelligence  where  they  are 
driving.  In  an  instant  my  coachman  took  the  wink 
to  pursue,  and  the  lady's  driver  gave  the  hint  that  he 

was 


152        A  DAY'S  RAMBLE  IN  LONDON. 

■<Kas  going  through  Long-Acre,  towards  St.  James's. 
While  he  whipped  up  James- Street,  we  drove  ior 
King -Street,  to  save  the  pass  at  St.  Martin's -Lane. 
The  coachmen  took  care  to  meet,  jostle,  and  threaten 
each  other  for  wav,  and  be  entangled  at  the  end  of 
Newport- Street  and  Long -Acre.  The  fright,  yon 
must  believe,  brought  down  the  lady's  coach-door, 
and  obliged  her,  with  her  mask  off,  to  enquire  into 
the  bustle,  when  she  sees  the  man  she  would  avoid. 
The  tackle  of  the  coach-window  is  so  bad  she  can- 
not draw  it  up  again,  and  she  drives  on  sometimes 
wholly  discovered,  and  sometimes  half  escaped,  ac- 
cording to  the  accident  of  carriages  in  her  way.  One 
of  these  ladies  keeps  her  seat  in  a  hackney-coach,  as 
well  as  the  best  rider  does  on  a  managed  horse.  The 
laced  shoe  of  her  left  foot,  with  a  careless  gesture, 
just  appearing  on  the  opposite  cushion,  held  her  both 
firm,  and  in  a  proper  attitude  to  receive  the  next  jolt. 
As  she  was  an  excellent  coach-woman,  many  were 
the  glances  at  each  other  which  we  had  for  an  hour 
and  an  half,  in  all  parts  of  the  town,  by  the  skill  of 
our  drivers ;  until  at  last  my  lady  was  conveniently 
lost  with  notice  from  her  coachman  to  ours  to  make 
off,  and  he  should  hear  where  she  went.  This  chase 
■was  now  at  an  end,  and  the  fellow  who  drove  her 

came 


A  DAY'S  RAMBLE  IN  LONDOX'.        153 

came  to  us,  and  discovered  that  he  was  ordered  to 
come  again  in  an  hour,  for  that  she  was  a  Silk-worm. 
I  was  surprised  witli  this  phrase,  but  tound  it  was  a 
cant  among  tlie  iiackney  fraternity  for  their  best  cus- 
tomers, women  who  ramble  twice  or  thrice  a  week 
from  shop  to  shop,  to  turn  over  all  the  goods  in  town 
without  buying  anything.  The  Silk-worms  are,  it 
seems,  indulged  by  the  tradesmen  ;  for  though  they 
never  buy,  they  are  ever  talking  of  new  silks,  laces, 
and  ribbons,  and  serve  the  owners,  in  getting  them 
customers  as  their  common  dunners  do  in  making 
them  pay. 

The  day  of  people  of  i'ashion  began  now  to  break, 
and  carts  and  hacks  were  mingled  with  equipages  of 
show  and  vanity;  when  I  resolved  to  walk  it  out  of 
cheapness;  but  my  unhappy  curiosity  is  such,  that  I 
find  it  always  my  interest  to  take  coach,  for  some  odd 
adventure  among  beggars,  ballad-singers,  or  the  like, 
detains  and  throws  me  into  expense.  It  happened  so 
immediately  ;  for  at  the  corner  of  Warwick  Street,  as 
I  was  listening  to  a  new  ballad,  a  ragged  rascal,  a 
beggar  who  knew  me,  came  up  to  me,  and  began  to 
turn  the  eyes  of  the  good  company  upon  me,  by 
telling  me  he  was  extreme  poor,  and  should  die  in 
the  street  for  want  of   drink,   except  I    immediately 

would 


134        A  DAY'S  RAMBLE  IN  LONDON. 

would  have  tlie  cliarity  to  give  him  sixpence  to  go 
into  the  next  alehouse  and  save  his  life.  He  urged, 
with  a  melancholy  face,  that  all  his  family  had  died  of 
thirst.  All  the  mob  have  humour,  and  two  or  three 
began  to  take  the  jest ;  by  which  Mr.  Sturdy  carried 
liis  point,  and  let  me  sneak  off  to  a  coach.  As  I 
drove  along,  it  was  a  pleasing  reflection  to  see  the 
world  so  prettily  checkered  since  I  left  Richmond, 
and  the  scene  still  filling  with  children  of  a  new  hour. 
This  satisfactiorj  increased  as  I  moved  towards  the 
city,  and  gay  signs,  well  disposed  streets,  magnificent 
public  structures,  and  wealthy  shops,  adorned  with 
contented  faces,  made  the  joy  still  rising  till  we  came 
into  the  centre  of  the  city,  and  centre  of  the  world  of 
trade,  the  Exchange  of  London.  As  other  men  in 
the  crowds  about  me  were  pleased  with  their  hopes 
and  bargains,  I  found  my  account  in  observing  them, 
in  attention  to  their  several  interests.  I,  indeed, 
looked  upon  myself  as  the  richest  man  that  walked 
the  Exchange  that  day  ;  for  my  benevolence  made  me 
share  the  gains  of  every  bargain  that  was  made.  It 
was  not  the  least  of  my  satisfactions  in  my  survey,  to 
go  up  stairs,  and  pass  the  shops  of  agreeable  females ; 
to  observe  so  many  pretty  hands  busy  in  the  folding 
of  ribbons,   and   the  utmost  eagerness  of  agreeable 

faces 


A  DAY'S  RAMBLE  7.V  LONDON.       155 

faces  in  the  sale  of  patches,  pins,  and  wires,  on  each 
side  the  counters,  was  an  amusement  in  -which  I 
should  longer  have  indulged  myself,  had  not  the  dear 
creatures  called  to  me  to  ask  what  I  wanted,  when  I 
could  not  answer,  only  '  To  look  at  you.'  I  went  to 
one  of  the  windows  which  opened  to  the  area  below, 
where  all  the  several  voices  lost  their  distinction,  and 
rose  up  in  a  contused  humming,  which  created  in 
me  a  reflection  that  could  not  come  into  the  mind  of 
any  but  of  one  a  little  too  studious  ;  for  I  said  to  my- 
self, with  a  kind  of  pun  in  thought — '  What  nonsense 
'  is  all  the  hurrv  of  this  world  to  those  who  are  above 
'it?'  In  these,  or  not  much  wiser  thoughts,  I  had 
like  to  have  lost  my  place  at  the  chop-house,  where 
every  man,  according  to  the  natural  bashfulness  or 
sullenness  of  our  nation,  eats  in  a  public  room  a  mess 
of  broth,  or  chop  of  meat,  in  dumb  silence,  as  it  they 
had  no  pretence  to  speak  to  each  other  on  the  foot 
of  being  men,  except  they  were  of  each  other's 
acquaintance. 

I  went  afterwards  to  Robin's,  and  saw  people  who 
had  dined  with  me  at  the  fivepenny  ordinary  just 
before,  give  bills  for  the  value  of  large  estates;  and 
could  not  but  behold  with  great  pleasure,  property 
lodged  in,  and  transferred  in  a  moment  from  such  as 

would 


136       A  DAY'S  RAMBLE  IN  LONDON. 

would  never  be  masters  of  half  as  much  as  is  seem- 
ingly in  them,  and  given  from  them  every  day  they 
live.  But  before  five  in  the  afternoon  I  left  the  city, 
came  to  my  common  scene  of  Covent  Garden,  and 
passed  the  evening  at  Will's,  in  attending  the  dis- 
courses of  several  sets  of  people,  who  relieved  each 
other  within  my  hearing  on  the  subject  of  cards,  dice, 
love,  learning,  and  politics.  The  last  subject  kept  me 
until  I  heard  the  streets  in  the  possession  of  tlie  bell- 
man, who  had  now  the  world  to  himself,  and  cried — 
'  Past  two  of  the  clock.'  This  roused  me  from  my 
scat,  and  I  went  to  my  lodging,  led  by  a  light,  whom 
I  put  into  the  discourse  of  his  private  economy,  and 
made  him  give  me  an  account  of  the  charge,  hazard, 
profit,  and  loss  of  a  family  that  depended  upon  a  link, 
with  a  design  to  end  my  trivial  day  with  the  gene- 
rosity of  sixpence,  instead  of  a  third  part  of  that  sum. 
When  I  came  to  my  chambers  I  writ  down  these 
minutes  ;  but  was  at  a  loss  what  instruction  I  shoi  Id 
propose  to  my  reader  from  the  enumeration  of  so 
many  insignificant  matters  and  occurrences ;  and  I 
thought  it  of  great  use,  if  they  could  learn  with  me 
to  keep  their  minds  open  to  gratification,  and  ready  to 
receive  it  from  anything  it  meets  with.  This  one 
circumstance  will  make  every  face  you  see  give  you 

the 


A  DAY'S  RAMBLE  IX  LOXDOX.        157 

tlie  satisfaction  you  now  take  in  bchold'ng  tliat  of  a 
friend;  will  make  every  object  a  pleasing  one;  will 
make  all  the  good  which  arrives  to  any  man,  an 
increase  of  happiness  to  yourself. 

[August  II,  1 712.] 


DICK 


Spectator]  N°  20  [Steele 

DICK  ESTCOURT  :    IN  MEMORIAM. 


Erat  homo  iugeiiiosus,  acutiis,  acer,  ct  qui  phirhnuni 
el  salis  habcret  et  fellis,  iiec  camioiis  minus. — Plin. 


"jV  T  Y  paper  is  in  a  kind  a  letter  of  news,  but  it 
•^  '  -*■  regards  rather  what  passes  in  the  world  of 
conversation  than  that  of  business.  I  am  very  sorry 
that  I  have  at  present  a  circumstance  before  me,  which 
is  of  very  great  importance  to  all  who  have  a  relish 
for  gaiety,  wit,  mirth,  or  humour  ;  I  mean  the  death 
of  poor  Dick  Estcourt.  I  have  been  obliged  to  him  for 
so  many  hours  of  jollity,  that  it  is  but  a  small  recom- 
pense, though  all  I  can  give  him,  to  pass  a  moment  or 
two  in  sadness  tor  the  loss  of  so  agreeable  a  man. 
Poor  Estcourt !  the  last  time  I  saw  him,  we  were 
plotting  to  shew  the  town  his  great  capacity  for  acting 
in  its  full  light,  by  introducing  him  as  dictating  to  a 
set  of  young  players  in  what  manner  to  speak  this 

sentence, 


DICK  ESTCOURT :    IN  MEMORIAM.     159 

sentence,  and  utter  t'other  passion. — He  had  so  exqui- 
site a  discerning  of  what  was  defective  in  any  object 
before  him,  that  in  an  instant  he  could  show  you  the 
ridiculous  side  of  what  would  pass  for  beautiful  and 
just,  even  to  men  of  no  ill  judgment,  before  he  had 
pointed  at  the  failure.  He  was  no  less  skilful  in  the 
knowledge  of  beauty  ;  and,  I  dare  say,  there  is  no  one 
who  knew  him  well,  hut  can  repeat  more  well-turned 
compliments,  as  well  as  smart  repartees,  of  Mr.  Est- 
court's,  than  of  any  other  man  in  England.  This  was 
easily  to  be  observed  in  his  inimitable  faculty  of  tellino- 
a  story,  in  which  he  would  throw  in  natural  and  un- 
expected incidents  to  make  his  court  to  one  part,  and 
rally  the  other  part  of  the  company  :  then  he  would  vary 
the  usage  he  gave  them,  according  as  he  saw  them  bear 
kind  or  sharp  language.  He  had  the  knack  to  raise 
up  a  pensive  temper,  and  mortify  an  impertinently  gay 
one,  with  the  most  agreeable  skill  imaginable.  There 
are  a  thousand  things  which  crowd  into  my  memory, 
which  make  me  too  much  concerned  to  tell  on  about 
him.  Hamlet  holding  up  the  skull  which  the  grave- 
digger  threw  to  him,  with  an  account  that  it  was  the 
head  of  the  king's  jester,  falls  into  very  pleasing 
reflections,  and  cries  out  to  his  companion — 

'  Alas,    poor   Ycrick  I    I    knew    him,    Horatio ;    a 

'  fellow 


I40     DICK  ESTCOURT:    7.V  MEMORIAM. 

'  fellow  of  infinite  jest,  of  most  excellent  fancy  :  he 
'  hath  borne  me  on  his  back  a  thousand  times  ;  and 
'  now  how  abhorred  in  my  imagination  it  is !  my  gorge 
'  rises  at  it.  Here  hung  those  lips  that  I  have  kissed 
'  I  know  not  how  oft.  Where  be  your  gibes  now? 
'  your  gambols?  your  songs?  your  flashes  of  merri- 
'  nient,  that  were  wont  to  set  the  table  on  a  roar  ? 
'  Not  one  now  to  mock  your  own  grinning?  quite 
'  chop-fallen  ?  Now  get  you  to  my  lady's  chamber, 
'  and  tell  her,  let  her  paint  an  inch  thick,  to  this 
'  favour  she  must  come  ;   make  her  laugh  at  that.' 

It  is  an  insolence  natural  to  the  wealthy,  to  affix, 
as  much  as  in  them  lies,  the  character  ot  a  man  to 
liis  circumstances.  Thus  it  is  ordinary  with  them 
to  praise  faintly  the  good  qualities  of  those  below 
them,  and  say,  it  is  very  extraordinary  in  such  a 
man  as  he  is,  or  the  like,  when  they  are  forced  to 
acknowledge  the  value  of  him  whose  lowness  upbraids 
their  exaltation.  It  is  to  this  humour  only,  that  it  is 
to  he  ascribed  that  a  quick  wit  in  conversation,  a 
nice  judgment  upon  any  emergency  that  could  arise, 
and  a  most  blameless  inoffensive  behaviour  could  not 
raise  this  man  above  being  received  only  upon  the 
foot  of  contributing  to  mirth  and  diversion.  But  he 
was  as   easy  under   that  condition,  as  a  man   of  so 

excellent 


DICK  ESTCOURT :   TX  MFMORLUf.     141 

excellent  talents  was  capable,  and  since  they  would 
have  it  that  to  divert  was  his  business,  he  did  it 
with  all  the  seeming  alacrity  imaginable,  though  it 
stung  him  to  the  heart  that  it  was  his  business. 
Men  of  sense,  who  could  taste  his  excellencies,  were 
well  satisfied  to  let  him  lead  the  way  in  conversation, 
and  play  after  his  own  manner  ;  but  fools  who 
provoked  him  to  mimicry,  found  he  had  the  indig- 
nation to  let  it  be  at  their  expense,  who  called  for 
it,  and  he  would  show  the  form  of  conceited  heavy 
fellows  as  jests  to  the  company  at  their  own  request, 
in  revenge  for  interrupting  him  from  being  a  com- 
panion to  put  on  the  character  of  a  jester. 

What  was  peculiarly  excellent  in  this  memorable 
companion,  was,  that  in  the  account  he  gave  of  per- 
sons and  sentiments,  lie  did  not  only  hit  the  figure 
of  their  faces,  and  manner  of  their  gestures,  but  he 
would  in  his  narration  fall  into  their  very  way  of 
thinking,  and  this  when  he  recounted  passages 
wherein  men  of  the  best  wit  were  concerned,  as 
well  as  such  wherein  were  represented  men  of  the 
lowest  rank  of  understanding.  It  is  certainly  as  great 
an  instance  of  self-love  to  a  weakness,  to  be  impatient 
of  being  mimicked,  as  any  can  be  imagined.  There 
were  none  but  the  vain,  the  formal,  the  proud,  or 

those 


142     DICK  ESTCOURT:   IN  MEMORIAM. 

those  who  were  incapable  of  amending  tlieir  fauhs, 
that  dreaded  him  ;  to  others  he  was  in  the  highesl 
degree  pleasing;  and  T  do  not  know  any  satisfaction 
of  any  indifferent  kind  I  ever  tasted  so  much  as  having 
got  over  an  impatience  of  my  seeing  myself  in  the 
air  he  could  put  mc  when  I  have  displeased  him.  It 
is  indeed  to  his  exquisite  talent  this  way,  more  than 
any  philosophy  I  could  read  on  the  subject,  that  my 
person  is  very  little  of  my  care,  and  it  is  indifl'erent 
to  me  what  is  said  of  my  shape,  my  air,  my  manner, 
my  speech,  or  my  address.  It  is  to  poor  Estcourt 
I  chiefly  owe  that  I  am  arrived  at  the  happiness  of 
thinking  nothing  a  diminution  to  me  but  what  argues 
a  depravity  of  my  will. 

It  has  as  much  surprised  me  as  anything  in  nature, 
to  have  it  frequently  said.  That  he  was  not  a  good 
player  :  but  that  must  be  owing  to  a  partiality  for 
former  actors  in  the  parts  in  which  he  succeeded 
them,  and  judging  by  comparison  of  what  was  liked 
before,  rather  than  by  the  nature  of  the  thing.  When 
a  man  of  his  wit  and  smartness  could  put  on  an 
utter  absence  of  common  sense  in  his  face,  as  he 
did  in  the  character  of  Bullfinch  in  the  Northern 
Lass,  and  an  air  of  insipid  cunning  and  vivacity  in 
the  character  of  Pounce  in  the  Tender  Husband,  it 


DICK  ESTCOURT:   IN  MEMORUM.     145 

is  folly  to  dispute  his  capacity  and  success,  as  he  was 
an  actor. 

Poor  Estcourt !  let  the  vain  and  proud  be  at  rest, 
they  will  no  more  disturb  their  admiration  of  their 
dear  selves,  and  thou  art  no  longer  to  drudge  in 
raising  the  mirth  of  stupids,  who  know  nothing  of 
thy  merit,  for  thy  maintenance. 

It  is  natural  for  the  generality  of  mankind  to  run 
into  reflections  upon  our  mortality,  when  disturbers 
of  the  world  are  laid  at  rest,  but  to  take  no  notice 
when  they  who  can  please  and  divert  are  pulled  from 
us  :  but  for  my  part,  I  cannot  but  think  the  loss  of 
such  talents  as  the  man  of  whom  I  am  speaking  was 
master  of,  a  more  melancholy  instance  of  mortality 
than  the  dissolution  of  persons  of  never  so  high  char- 
acters in  the  world,  whose  pretensions  were  that  they 
were  noisy  and  mischievous. 

But  I  must  grow  more  succinct,  and  as  a  Spec- 
tator, give  an  account  of  this  extraordinary  man, 
who,  in  his  way,  never  had  an  equal  in  any  age  be- 
fore him,  or  in  that  wherein  he  lived.  I  speak  of  him 
as  a  companion,  and  a  man  qualified  for  conversation. 
His  fortune  exposed  him  to  an  obsequiousness  to- 
wards the  worst  sort  of  company,  but  his  excellent 
qualities    rendered    him  capable  of  making  the  best 

figure 


144     DICK  ESTCOURT:  IN  MEMORIAM. 

figure  in  tlie  most  refined.  I  have  been  present 
with  him  among  men  ot"  the  most  delicate  taste  a 
whole  night,  and  have  known  him  (for  he  saw  it 
■vvas  desired)  keep  the  discourse  to  himself  the  most 
part  of  it,  and  maintain  his  good  humour  with  a 
countenance  in  a  language  so  delightful,  without 
ofl'ence  to  any  person  or  thing  upon  earth,  still  pre- 
serving the  distance  his  circumstances  obliged  him 
to;  I  say,  I  have  seen  him  do  all  this  in  such  a 
charming  manner,  that  I  am  sure  none  of  those  I 
hint  at  will  read  this,  without  giving  hiin  some 
sorrow  for  their  abundant  mirth,  and  one  gush  cf 
tears  for  so  many  bursts  ot  laughter.  I  wish  it  were 
any  honour  to  the  pleasant  creature's  memory,  that 
my  eyes  are  too  much  suffused  to  let  me  go  on 

[August  27,  1712.] 


DEATH 


Spectator]  N     21  [Addison 

DEATH  OF  SIR  ROGER  DE  COVERLEY. 

Hen  pietas  !     Hen  prisca  fides  !  


• — VlRG. 


"X  T  7E  last  night  received  a  piece  of  ill  news  at 
*  *  our  club,  which  very  sensibly  afflicted  every 
one  of  us.  I  question  not  but  my  readers  themselves 
will  be  troubled  at  the  hearing  of  it.  To  keep  them 
no  longer  in  suspense,  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  is  dead. 
He  departed  this  life  at  his  house  in  the  country,  alter 
a  few  weeks'  sickness.  Sir  Andrew  Freeport  has  a 
letter  from  one  of  his  correspondents  in  those  parts, 
that  informs  liim  the  old  man  caught  a  cold  at  the 
county-sessions,  as  he  was  very  warmly  promoting  an 
address  of  his  own  penning,  in  which  he  succeeded 
according  to  his  wishes.  But  this  particular  comes 
from  a  Whig  justice  of  peace,  who  was  always  Sir 
Roger's  enemy  and  antagonist.     I  have  letters  both 

from 
12 


146  DEATH  OF 

from  the  chaplain  and  Captain  Sentry  which  mention 
nothing  of  it,  but  are  filled  with  many  particulars  to 
the  honour  of  the  good  old  man.  I  have  likewise 
a  letter  from  the  butler,  who  took  so  much  care  of 
me  last  summer  when  I  was  at  the  knight's  house. 
As  my  friend  the  butler  mentions,  in  the  simplicity 
of  his  heart,  several  circumstances  the  others  have 
passed  over  in  silence,  I  shall  give  my  reader  a  copy 
of  his  letter,  without  any  alteration  or  diminution. 

HOXOURED   SIR, 

Tj^NOWlNG  that  you  was  my  old  master's  good 
friend,  I  could  not  forbear  sending  you  the 
melancholy  news  of  his  death,  which  has  affected 
the  whole  country,  as  well  as  his  poor  servant.;, 
^vho  loved  him,  I  may  say,  better  than  we  did  our 
lives.  I  am  afraid  he  caught  his  death  the  last 
county-sessions,  where  he  would  go  to  see  justice 
done  to  a  poor  widow  woman  and  her  fatherless 
children,  that  had  been  wronged  by  a  neighbouring 
gentleman  ;  for  you  know,  Sir,  my  good  master  was 
always  the  poor  man's  friend.  Upon  his  coming 
home,  the  first  complaint  he  made  was,  that  he  had 
lost  his  roast-beef  stomach,  not  being  able  to  touch 
a  sirloin,  which  was  served  up  according  to  custom ; 

and 


SIR  ROGER  DE  COVERLEY.  147 

and  you  know  lie  used  to  take  great  delight  in  it. 
From  that  time  forward  he  grew  worse  and  worse, 
but  still  kept  a  good  heart  to  the  last.  Indeed,  \vo 
were  once  in  great  hope  of  his  recovery,  upon  a  kind 
message  that  was  sent  him  from  the  widow  lady  whom 
he  had  made  love  to  the  forty  last  years  of  his  life ; 
but  this  only  proved  a  light'ning  before  death.  He 
has  bequeathed  to  this  lady,  as  a  token  of  his  love,  a 
great  pearl  necklace,  and  a  couple  of  silver  bracelets 
set  with  jewels,  which  belonged  to  my  good  old  lady 
his  mother  :  he  has  bequeathed  the  fine  white  gelding, 
that  he  used  to  ride  a-hunting  upon,  to  his  chapLtin, 
because  he  thought  he  would  be  kind  to  him,  and 
has  left  you  all  his  books.  He  has,  moreover,  be- 
queathed to  the  chaplain  a  very  pretty  tenement 
with  good  lands  about  it.  It  being  a  very  cold  day 
when  he  made  his  will,  he  left  for  mourning,  to  every 
man  in  the  parish,  a  great  frieze  coat,  and  to  every 
woman  a  black  riding-hood.  It  was  a  most  moving 
sight  to  see  him  take  leave  of  his  poor  servants, 
commending  us  all  for  our  fidelity,  whilst  we  were 
not  able  to  speak  a  word  for  weeping.  As  we  most 
ot  us  are  grown  grey-headed  in  our  dear  master's 
service,  he  has  left  us  pensions  and  legacies,  which 
we  may  live  very  comfortably  upon,  the  remaining 

part 


148  DEATH  OF 

part  of  our  days.  He  has  bequeathed  a  great  deal 
more  in  charity,  \vhich  is  not  yet  come  to  my  know- 
ledge, and  it  is  peremptorily  said  in  the  parish,  that 
he  has  left  money  to  build  a  steeple  to  the  church ; 
for  he  was  heard  to  say  some  time  ago,  that  if  he 
lived  two  years  longer,  Coverley  church  should  have 
a  steeple  to  it.  The  chaplain  tells  everybody  that 
he  made  a  very  good  end,  and  never  speaks  of  him 
without  tears.  He  was  buried,  according  to  his  own 
directions,  among  the  family  of  the  Coverleys,  oii 
the  left-hand  of  his  father  Sir  Arthur.  The  cotTiii 
was  carried  by  six  of  his  tenants,  and  the  pall  held 
up  by  six  of  the  quorum  :  the  whole  parish  i'ollowcd 
the  corpse  w-itli  heavy  hearts,  and  in  their  mourning 
suits,  the  men  in  frieze,  and  the  women  in  riding- 
hoods.  Captain  Sentry,  my  master's  nephew,  has 
taken  possession  of  the  Hall-House,  and  the  whole 
estate.  When  my  old  master  saw  him  a  little  before 
his  death,  he  shook  him  by  the  hand,  and  wished 
him  joy  of  the  estate  which  was  falling  to  him,  de- 
siring him  only  to  make  a  good  use  of  it,  and  pay 
the  several  legacies  and  the  gifts  of  charity  which  he 
told  him  he  had  lel't  as  quit-rents  upon  the  estate. 
The  captain  truly  seems  a  courteous  man,  though  he 
savs  but  little.     He  makes  much  of  those  whom  my 

master 


SIR  ROGER  DE  COVERLEY.  1^9 

master  loved,  and  shows  great  kindness  to  the  old 
house-dog,  that  you  know  my  poor  master  was  so 
fond  of.  It  would  have  gone  to  your  heart  to  have 
heard  the  moans  the  dumb  creature  made  on  the 
day  of  my  master's  death.  He  has  never  joyed  him- 
self since ;  no  more  has  any  of  us.  It  was  the 
melancholiest  day  for  the  poor  people  that  ever  hap- 
pened in  Worcestershire.  This  being  all  from, 
Honoured  Sir, 

Your  most  sorrowful  servant, 

Edward  Biscuit. 

P.  S.  My  master  desired,  some  weeks  before  he  died, 
that  a  book,  which  comes  up  to  you  by  the  carrier, 
should  be  given  to  Sir  Andrew  Freeport,  in  his  name. 

This  letter,  notwithstanding  the  poor  butler's  man- 
ner of  writing  it,  gave  us  such  an  idea  of  our  good 
old  friend  that  upon  the  reading  of  it  there  was  not 
a  dry  eye  in  the  club.  Sir  Andrew,  opening  the 
book,  found  it  to  be  a  collection  of  acts  of  parliament. 
There  was  in  particular  the  Act  of  Uniformity,  with 
some  passages  in  it  marked  by  Sir  Roger's  own  hand. 
Sir  .\ndrew  found  that  they  related  to  two  or  three 
points,  which  he  had  disputed  with  Sir  Roger  the 
last  time  he  appeared  at  the  club.     Sir  .\ndrew,  who 

would 


ISO  DEATH  OF  SIR  ROGER. 

would  have  been  merry  at  such  an  incident  on  an- 
other occasion,  at  the  sight  of  the  old  man's  hand- 
writing burst  into  tears,  and  put  the  book  into  his 
pocket.  Captain  Sentry  informs  me  that  the  knight 
has  left  rings  and  mourning  for  every  one  in  the 
club. 

[October  23,  1712.] 


THE 


Free-holder]  N     23  [Addison 

THE   TORY  FOXHUNTER. 


Sttidiis    rudis,    seniwiie   barbarus,    iiiipetti    siiriiiius, 
iiianu  promptiis,  cogitatione  celer. — Vell.  Paterc. 


FOR  the  honour  of  his  Majesty,  and  the  safety  of 
his  government,  \ve  cannot  but  observe,  that 
those,  -who  have  appeared  the  greatest  enemies  to 
both,  are  of  that  rank  of  men,  who  are  commonly 
distinguished  by  the  title  of  Fox-htintcrs.  As  several 
of  these  have  had  no  part  of  their  education  in  cities, 
camps,  or  courts,  it  is  doubtful  whether  they  are  of 
greater  ornament  or  use  to  the  nation  in  which  they 
live.  It  would  be  an  everlasting  reproach  to  politics, 
should  such  men  be  able  to  overturn  an  establishment 
which  has  been  formed  by  the  wisest  laws,  and  is  sup- 
ported by  the  ablest  heads.  The  wrong  notions  and 
prejudices  which  cleave  to  nianv  of  these  country- 
gentlemen,  who  have  always  lived  out  of  the  wav  of 

"being 


152  THE  TORY  FOXHUNTER. 

being  better  informed,  are  not  easy  to  be  conceived 
by  a  person  who  has  never  conversed  with  them. 

That  I  may  give  my  readers  an  image  of  these  rural 
statesmen,  I  shall,  without  further  preface,  set  down 
an  account  of  a  discourse  I  chanced  to  have  with  one 
of  them  some  time  ago.  I  was  travelling  towards  one 
of  the  remotest  parts  of  England,  when  about  three 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  seeing  a  country-gentleman 
trotting  before  me  with  a  spaniel  by  his  horse's  side, 
I  made  up  to  him.  Our  conversation  opened,  as 
usual,  upon  the  weather ;  in  which  we  were  very 
unanimous  ;  having  both  agreed  that  it  was  too  dry 
for  the  season  of  the  year.  My  fellow-traveller,  upon 
this,  observed  to  me,  that  there  had  been  no  good 
weather  since  the  Revolution.  I  was  a  little  startled 
at  so  extraordinary  a  remark,  but  would  not  interrupt 
him  until  he  proceeded  to  tell  me  of  the  fine  weather 
they  used  to  have  in  King  Charles  the  Second's  reign. 
I  only  answered  that  I  did  not  see  how  the  badness  of 
the  weather  could  be  the  king's  fault ;  and,  without 
waiting  for  his  reply,  asked  him  whose  house  it  was 
we  saw  upon  a  rising  ground  at  a  little  distance  from 
us.  He  told  me  it  belonged  to  an  old  fanatical  cur, 
Mr.  Such-a-one.  '  You  must  have  heard  of  l;im,' 
says  he,  '  he's  one  of  the  Rump.'  I  knew  the  gentle- 
man s 


THE  TORY  FOXHUXTER.  155 

man's  character  upon  hearing  his  name,  but  assured 
him  that  to  my  knowledge  he  was  a  good  churchman. 
'  Ay  !  '  says  he  with  a  kind  of  surprise,  '  We  were 
'  told  in  the  country,  that  he  spoke  twice  in  the  queen's 
'  time  against  taking  oil  the  duties  upon  French  claret.' 
This  naturally  led  us  into  the  proceedings  of  late  par- 
liaments, upon  which  occasion  he  affirmed  roundly, 
that  there  had  not  been  one  good  law  passed  since 
King  William's  accession  to  the  throne,  except  the 
act  for  preserving  the  game.  I  had  a  mind  to  see 
him  out,  and  therefore  did  not  care  for  contradicting 
him.  '  Is  it  not  hard,'  says  he,  '  that  honest  gentle- 
'  men  should  be  taken  into  custody  of  messengers  to 
'  prevent  them  from  acting  according  to  their  con- 
'  sciences?     But,'    says    he,    'what   can    we    expect 

'  when  a  parcel  of  iactious  sons  of '     He  was 

going  on  in  great  passion,  but  chanced  to  miss  his 
dog,  who  was  amusing  himself  about  a  bush  that 
grew  at  some  distance  behind  us.  We  stood  still  till 
he  had  whistled  him  up  ;  when  he  fell  into  a  long 
panegyric  upon  his  spaniel,  who  seemed  indeed  ex- 
cellent in  his  kind  :  but  I  found  the  most  remarkable 
adventure  of  his  life  was,  that  he  had  once  like  to 
have  worried  a  dissenting-teacher.  The  master  could 
hardly  sit  on  his  horse  for  laughing  all  the  while  he 

was 


154  THE  TORY  FOXHUXTER. 

was  giving  me  the  particulars  of  this  storj-,  which  I 
found  had  mightily  endeared  his  dog  to  him,  and,  as 
he  himself  told  me,  had  made  him  a  great  favourite 
among  all  the  honest  gentlemen  of  the  country.  We 
were  at  length  diverted  from  this  piece  of  mirth  by  a 
post-boy,  who  winding  his  horn  at  us,  my  companion 
gave  him  two  or  three  curses,  and  left  the  way  clear 
for  him.  '  I  fancy,'  said  I,  '  that  post  brings  news 
'  from  Scotland.  1  shall  long  to  see  the  next  Gazette.' 
'  Sir,'  savs  he,  '  I  make  it  a  rule  never  to  believe  any 
'  of  your  printed  news.  We  never  see,  sir,  how 
'  things  go,  except  now  and  then  in  "  Dyer's  Letter," 
'  and  I  read  that  more  for  the  style  than  the  news. 
'  The  man  has  a  clever  pen,  it  must  be  owned.  But  is 
'  it  not  strange  that  we  should  be  making  war  upon 
'  Church  -  of- England  men,  with  Dutch  and  Swiss 
'  soldiers,  men  of  antimonarchical  principles?  These 
'  foreigners  will  never  be  loved  in  England,  sir  ;  they 
•  have  not  that  wit  and  good- breeding  that  we  have.' 
I  must  confess  1  did  not  expect  to  hear  my  new  ac- 
quaintance value  himself  upon  these  qualifications ; 
but  finding  him  such  a  critic  upon  foreigners,  I  asked 
him  if  he  had  ever  travelled  ?  He  told  me,  he  did  not 
know  what  travelling  was  good  for,  but  to  teach  a 
man  to  ride  the  great  horse,  to  jabber  French,  and  to 

talk 


THE  TORY  FOXHUNTER.  155 

talk  against  passive-obedience  :  To  which  he  added, 
that  he  scarce  ever  knew  a  traveller  in  his  life  wlio 
had  not  forsook  his  principles,  and  lost  his  hunting- 
seat.  '  For  my  part,'  says  he,  '  I  and  my  father 
'  before  me  have  ahvaj's  been  for  passive-obedience, 
'  and  shall  be  always  for  opposing  a  prince  who  makes 
'  use  of  ministers  that  are  of  another  opinion.  But 
'  where  do  you  intend  to  inn  to-night?  (for  we  were 
'  now  come  in  sight  of  the  next  town  ;)  I  can  help  you 
'  to  a  very  good  landlord  if  you  will  go  along  with  me. 
'  He  is  a  lusty,  jolly  fellow,  that  lives  well,  at  least 
'  three  yards  in  the  girth,  and  the  best  Church-of- 
*  England  man  upon  the  road.'  I  had  the  curiosity 
to  see  this  high-church  inn-keeper,  as  well  as  to  enjoy 
more  of  the  conversation  of  my  fellow-traveller,  and 
therefore  readily  consented  to  set  our  horses  together 
for  that  night.  As  we  rode  side  by  side  through 
the  town,  I  was  let  into  the  characters  of  all  the 
principal  inhabitants  whom  we  met  in  our  way. 
One  was  a  dog,  another  a  whelp,  and  another  a 
cur,  under  which  several  denominations  were  com- 
prehended all  that  voted  on  the  Whig  side  in  the 
last  election  of  burgesses.  As  for  those  of  his  o.vn 
party,  he  distinguished  them  by  a  nod  of  his  head, 
and  asking  them   how  they  did    by  their  Christian 

names. 


1^6  THE  TORY  FOXHUNTER. 

names.  Upon  our  arrival  at  the  inn,  my  companion 
fetched  out  the  jolly  landlord,  who  knew  him  by  his 
whistle.  Many  endearments  and  private  whispers 
passed  between  them ;  though  it  was  easy  to  see 
by  the  landlord's  scratching  his  head  that  things  did 
not  go  to  their  wishes.  The  landlord  had  swelled 
his  body  to  a  prodigious  size,  and  worked  up  his 
complexion  to  a  standing  crimson  by  his  zeal  for  the 
prosperity  of  the  Church,  which  he  expressed  every 
hour  of  the  day,  as  his  customers  dropt  in,  by  repeated 
bumpers.  He  had  not  time  to  go  to  church  himself, 
but,  as  my  friend  told  me  in  my  ear,  had  headed  a 
■mob  at  the  pulling  down  of  two  or  three  meeting- 
houses. While  supper  was  preparing,  he  enlarged 
upon  the  happiness  of  the  neighbouring  shire  ;  '  For,' 
says  he,  '  there  is  scarce  a  Presbyterian  in  the  whole 
'  county,  except  the  bishop.'  In  short,  I  found  by  his 
discourse  that  he  had  learned  a  great  deal  of  politics, 
b'Jt  not  one  word  of  religion,  from  the  parson  of  his 
parish ;  and  indeed,  that  he  had  scarce  any  other 
notion  of  religion,  but  that  it  consisted  in  hating 
Presbyterians.  I  had  a  remarkable  instance  of  his 
notions  in  this  particular.  Upon  seeing  a  poor  de- 
crepit old  woman  pass  under  the  window  where  he 
sat,  he  desired  me  to  take  notice  of  her ;  and  after- 
wards 


THE  TORY  FOXHUXTER.  157 

wards  informed  ine,  that  she  \vas  generally  reputed  a 
witch  by  the  country  people,  but  that,  lor  Ills  part, 
he  was  apt  to  believe  she  was  a  Presbyterian. 

Supper  was  no  sooner  served  in,  than  lie  took  occa- 
sion, from  a  shoulder  of  mutton  that  lay  before  us,  to 
cry  up  the  plenty  of  England,  which  would  be  the 
happiest  country  in  the  world,  provided  we  would 
live  within  ourselves.  Upon  which,  he  expatiated 
on  the  inconveniences  of  trade,  that  carried  from  us 
the  commodities  of  our  country,  and  made  a  parcel  of 
upstarts  as  rich  as  men  of  the  most  ancient  families 
of  England.  He  then  declared  frankly,  that  he  had 
always  been  against  all  treaties  and  alliances  with 
foreigners:  '  Our  wooden  walls,'  says  he,  '  are  our 
'  security,  and  we  may  bid  defiance  to  the  whole 
'  world,  especially  if  they  should  attack  us  when  the 
'  militia  is  out.'  I  ventured  to  reply,  that  I  had  as 
great  an  opinion  of  the  English  fleet  as  he  had  ;  but  I 
could  not  see  how  they  could  be  paid,  and  manned, 
and  fitted  out,  unless  we  encouraged  trade  and  naviga- 
tion. He  replied  with  some  vehemence,  Xhat  he 
would  undertake  to  prove  trade  would  be  the  ruin  of 
the  English  nation.  I  would  fain  have  put  him  upon 
it ;  but  he  contented  himself  with  affirming  it 
more  eagerly,  to  which  he  added  two  or  three  curses 

upon 


158  THE  TORY  FOXHUNTER. 

upon  the  London  merchants,  not  forgetting  the 
directors  of  the  Banii.  After  supper  he  asked  me  if  I 
■\vas  an  admirer  of  punch  ;  and  immediately  called  for 
a  snealcer.  I  took  this  occasion  to  insinuate  the  ad- 
vantages of  trade,  by  observing  to  him,  that  water  was 
the  only  native  of  England  that  could  be  made  use  of 
on  this  occasion  :  but  that  the  lemons,  the  brandy, 
the  sugar,  and  the  nutmeg,  were  all  foreigners.  This 
put  him  into  some  confusion  :  but  the  landlord  who 
overheard  me,  brought  him  off,  by  affirming.  That 
for  constant  use  there  was  no  liquor  like  a  cup  of 
English  water,  provided  it  had  malt  enough  in  it. 
My  squire  laughed  heartily  at  the  conceit,  and  made 
the  landlord  sit  down  with  us.  We  sat  pretty  late 
over  our  punch  ;  and  amidst  a  great  deal  of  improving 
discourse,  drank  the  healths  of  several  persons  in  the 
country,  whom  I  had  never  heard  of,  that,  they  both 
assured  me,  were  the  ablest  statesmen  in  the  nation ; 
and  of  some  Londoners,  whom  they  extolled  to  the 
skies  for  their  wit,  and  who,  I  knew,  passed  in  town 
for  silly  fellows.  It  being  now  midnight,  and  my 
friend  perceiving  by  his  almanack  that  the  moon  was 
up,  he  called  for  his  horse,  and  took  a  sudden  resolu- 
tion to  go  to  his  house,  which  was  at  three  miles' 
distance  from  the  town,  after  having  bethought  him- 
self 


THE  TORY  FOXHUXTER.  159 

self  that  he  never  slept  well  out  of  iiis  own  bed.  He 
shook  me  very  heartily  by  the  hand  at  parting,  and 
discovered  a  great  air  of  satisfaction  in  his  looks,  that 
he  had  met  with  an  opportunity  of  showing  his  parts, 
and  left  me  a  much  wiser  man  than  he  found  me. 

[March  5,  1716.] 


World]  N      23  [Chestf.rfiixd 

A  MODERN  CONVERSATION. 


[I'lillis  scTi'ii  1IIC  qiioquc  siimerc 
Vtirtciii  }-'(ilcnii?  — HoR.] 


AN  old  friend  and  I'ellow-student  of  mine  at  the 
^  university  called  upon  me  the  other  morning, 
and  found  me  reading.  Plato's  Symposion.  1  laid 
down  my  book  to  receive  him  ;  which,  after  the  first 
usual  compliments,  he  took  up,  saying — '  You  will 
'  give  me  leave  to  see  what  was  the  object  of  your 
'  studies.'  '  Nothing  less  than  the  divine  Plato,' 
said  I,  'that  amiable  philosopher' — 'With  whom,' 
interrupted  my  friend,  '  Cicero  declares,  that  he  would 
'  rather  be  in  the  wrong,  than  in  the  right  with  any 
'  other.' — '  I  cannot,'  replied  I,  '  carry  my  veneration 
'  for  him  to  that  degree  of  enthusiasm  ;  but  yet, 
*  wherever  I  understand  him  (for  I  confess  I  do  not 

'  everywhere). 


A  MODERN  CO\TERSATIO>^.  i6i 

•  everywhere),  I  prefer  him  to  all  the  ancient  philoso- 
'  phers.  His  Symposion  more  particularly  engasjcs 
'  and  entertains  me,  as  I  see  there  the  manners  and 
'  characters  of  the  most  eminent  men,  of  the  p6lite3t 
'  times  of  the  politest  city  of  Greece.  And,  with  all 
'  due  respect  to  the  moderns,  I  much  question  whether 
'  an  account  of  a  modern  Symposion,  though  written 
'  by  the  ablest  hand,  could  be  read  with  so  much 
'  pleasure  and  improvement.' — '  I  do  not  know  that,' 
replied  my  friend  ;  '  for  though  I  revere  the  ancients 
'  as  much  as  you  possibly  can,  and  look  upon  the 
'  moderns  as  pigmies  when  compared  to  those  giants, 
'  yet  if  we  come  up  to,  or  near  them  in  anything,  it 
'  is   in   the   elegancy   and  delicacy  of  our  convivial 

*  intercourse.' 

I  was  the  more  surprised  at  this  doubt  of  my 
friend's,  because  I  knew  that  he  implicitly  subscribed 
to,  and  superstitiously  maintained,  all  the  articles  of 
the  classical  faith.  I  therefore  asked  him  whether  he 
was  serious?  He  answered  me  that  he  was:  that  in 
his  mind,  Plato  spun  out  that  silly  affair  of  love  too 
fine  and  too  long ;  and  that  if  I  would  but  let  him 
introduce  me  to  the  club,  of  which  he  was  an  un- 
worthy member,  he  believed  I  should  at  least  enter- 
tain the  same  doubt,  or  perhaps  even  decide  in  favour 

of 
]3 


i62  A  MODERN  COXVERSATION. 

of  the  moderns.  1  thanked  my  friend  for  his  kind- 
ness, but  added,  that  in  whatever  society  he  was  an 
unworthy  member,  I  should  be  a  still  more  unworthy 
guest.  That  moreover  my  retired  and  domestic  turn 
of  life  was  as  inconsistent  with  the  engagements  of  a 
club,  as  my  natural  taciturnity  amongst  strangers 
would  be  misplaced  in  the  midst  of  all  that  festal 
mirth  and  gaiety.  '  You  mistake  me,'  answered  my 
friend,  '  every  member  of  our  club  has  the  privilege  of 
'  bringing  one  friend  along  with  him,  who  is  by  no 
'  means  thereby  to  become  a  member  of  it ;  and  as 
•  for  your  taciturnity,  we  have  some  silent  members, 
'  who,  by  the  way,  are  none  of  our  worst.  Silent 
'  people  never  spoil  company  ;  but,  on  the  contrary. 
'  by  being  good  hearers,  encourage  good  speakers.' 
— '  But  I  have  another  difficulty/  answered  1,  '  and 
'  that  I  doubt  a  very  solid  one ;  which  is,  that  I 
'  drink  nothing  but  water.' — '  So  much  the  worse  for 
'  you,'  replied  my  friend,  who,  by  the  by,  loves  his 
bottle  most  academically  ;  '  you  will  pay  for  the  claret 
'  you  do  not  drink.  We  use  no  compulsion  ;  every 
'  one  drinks  as  little  as  he  pleases.' — '  Which  I  pre- 
'  sume,'  interrupted  I,  '  is  as  much  as  he  can.' — 
That  is  just  as  it  happens,'  said  he  ;  '  sometimes,  it 
'  is  true,  we  make  pretty  good  sittings ;  but  for  my 

'  own 


A  MODERN  CONVERSATION.         165 

•  own  part,  I  choose  to  go  home  always  before 
'  eleven  :  for,  take  my  word  for  it,  it  is  the  sitting 
'  up  late,  and  not  the  drink,  that  destroys  the  consti- 
'  tution.'  As  I  found  that  my  friend  would  have 
taken  a  refusal  ill,  I  told  him,  that  for  this  once  I 
would  certainly  attend  him  to  the  club  ;  but  desired 
him  to  give  me  previously  the  outlines  of  the  charac- 
ters of  the  sitting  members,  that  I  might  know  how 
to  behave  myself  properly.  '  Your  precaution,'  said 
he,  '  is  a  prudent  one,  and  I  will  make  you  so  well 
'  acquainted  with  them  beforehand  that  you  shall  not 
'  seem  a  stranger  when  among  them.  You  must 
'  know,  then,  that  our  club  consists  of  at  least  forty 
'  members  when  complete.     Of  these,  many  are  now 

*  in  the  country  ;  and  besides,  we  have  some  vacancies 
'  which  cannot  be  filled  up  till  next  winter.  Palsies 
'  and  apoplexies  have  of  late,  I  don't  know  why,  been 
'  pretty  rife  among  us,  and  carried  off  a  good  many. 
'  It  is  not  above  a  week  ago  that  poor  Tom  Toastwell 
'  fell  on  a  sudden  under  the  table,  as  we  thought 
'  only  a  little  in  drink,  but  he  was  carried  home,  and 
'  never  spoke  more.  Those  whom  you  will  probably 
'  meet  with  to-day  are,  first  of  all.  Lord  Feeble,  a 
'  nobleman  of  admirable  sense,  a  true  fine  gentleman, 
'  and  for  a  man  of  quality,  a  pretty  classic.     He  has 

'  lived 


i64  A  MODERN  CONVERSATION. 

'  lived  rather  fast  formerly,  a-nd  impaired  his  constitu- 
'  tion  by  sitting  up  late,  and  drinking  your  thin  sharp 
'  wines.  He  is  still  what  you  call  nervous,  which 
'  makes  him  a  little  low-spirited  and  reserved  at  first; 
'  but  he  grows  very  affable  and  cheerful  as  soon  as  he 
'  has  warmed  his  stomach  with  about  a  bottle  of  good 
'  claret. 

'  Sir  Tunbelly  Guzzle  is  a  very  worthy  north- 
'  country  baronet,  of  a  good  estate,  and  one  who  was 
'  beforehand  in  the  world,  till  being  twice  chosen 
'  knight  of  the  shire,  and  having  in  consequence  !;ot 
'  a  pretty  employment  at  court,  he  ran  out  consider- 
'  ably.  He  has  left  off  housekeeping,  and  is  now 
'  upon  a  retrieving  scheme.  He  is  the  heartiest, 
'  honestest  fellow  living,  and  though  he  is  a  man  of 
'  very  few  words,  I  can  assure  you  he  does  not  want 
'  sense.  He  had  an  university  education,  and  has  a 
'  good  notion  of  the  classics.  The  poor  man  is  con- 
'  fined  half  the  vear  at  least  with  the  gout,  and  has 
'  besides  an  inveterate  scurvy,  which  I  cannot  accouiit 
'  for :  no  man  can  live  more  regularly ;  he  eats  no- 
'  thing  but  plain  meat,  and  very  little  of  that ;  he 
'  drinks  no  thin  wines ;  and  never  sits  up  late,  for  he 
'  has  his  full  dose  by  eleven. 

'  Colonel  Culverin  is  a  brave  old  experienced  officer, 

-'  thouiih 


A  MODERN  COXrERSATIOX.  165 

'  though  hut  a  lieutenant-colonel  of  foot.  Between 
'  vou  and  me,  he  has  had  great  injustice  done  him; 
'  and  is  now  commanded  b)-  many  who  were  not  born 
"  when  he  came  first  into  the  army.  He  has  served 
'  in  Ireland,  Minorca,  and  Gibraltar;  and  would  have 
'  been  in  all  the  late  battles  in  Flanders,  had  the  regi- 
'  ment  been  ordered  there.  It  is  a  pleasure  to  hear 
'  him  talk  of  war.  He  is  the  best-natured  man  alive, 
'  but  a  little  too  jealous  of  his  honour,  and  too  apt  to 
'  be  in  a  passion  ;  but  that  is  soon  over,  and  then  he 
'  IS  sorry  for  it.  I  fear  he  is  dropsical,  which  I  im- 
'  pute  to  his  drinking  your  Champagnes  and  Burgun- 
'  dies.     He  got  that  ill  habit  abroad. 

'  Sir  George  Plj'ant  is  well  born,  has  a  genteel  for- 

*  tune,  keeps  the  very  best  Company,  and  is  to  be  sure 

*  one  of  the  best-bred  men  alive:  he  is  so  good-natured, 
'  that  he  seems  to  have  no  will  of  his  own.  He  will 
'  drink  as  little  or  as  much  as  you  please,  and  no 
'  matter  of  what.  He  has  been  a  mighty  man  with 
'  the  ladies  formerly,  and  loves  the  crack  of  the  whip 
'  still.  He  is  our  news-monger  ;  for,  being  a  member 
'  of  the  privy  chamber,  he  goes  to  court  every  day, 
'  and  consequently  knows  pretty  well  what  is  going 
'  forward  there.  Poor  gentleman  !  I  fear  we  shall 
'  not  keep  him  long,  for  he  seems  far  gone  in  a  con- 

'  sumption, 


j66  A  MODERN  COm'ERSATION. 

'  sumption,  though  the  doctors  say  it  is  only  a  nervous 

*  atrophy. 

'  Will  Sitfast  is  the  best-natured  fellow  living,  and 
'  an  excellent  companion,  though  he  seldom  speaks; 

*  but  he  is  no  flincher,  and  sits  every  man's  hand  out 
'  at  the  club.  He  is  a  very  good  scholar,  and  can 
'  write  very  pretty  Latin  verses.  I  doubt  he  is  in  a 
'  declining  way ;  for  a  paralytical  stroke  has  lately 
'  twitched  up  one  side  of  his  mouth  so,  that  he  is  now 
'  obliged  to  take  his  wine  diagonally.     However,  he 

*  keeps  up  his  spirits   bravely,  and  never  shams  his 

*  glass. 

'  Doctor  Carbuncle  is  an  honest,  jolly,  merry  par- 
'  son,  well  affected  to  the  government,  and  much  of  a 
'  gentleman.  He  is  the  life  of  our  club,  instead  of 
'  being  the  least  restraint  upon  it.  He  is  an  admirable 
'  scholar,  and  I  really  believe  has  all  Horace  by  heart; 
'  I  know  he  has  him  always  in  his  pocket.  His  red 
'  face,  inflamed  nose,  and  swelled  legs,  make  him 
'  generally  thought  a  hard  drinker  by  those  who  do 
'  not  know  him  ;  but  I  must  do  him  the  justice  to 
'  say,  that  1  neversaw  him  disguised  with  liquor  in 
'  my  life.  It  is  true,  he  is  a  very  large  man,  and 
'  can  hold  a  great  deal,  which  makes  the  colonel  call 
'  him,  pleasantly  enough,  a  vessel  of  election. 

'The 


A  MODERN  CONVERSATIOX.  167 

'  The  last  and  least,"  concluded  my  friend,  '  is  your 
'  humble  servant,  such  as  I  am ;  and  if  you  please, 
'  we  will  go  and  walk  in  the  park  till  dinner  time.' 
I  agreed,  and  we  set  out  together.  But  here  the 
reader  will  perhaps  expect  that  I  should  let  him  walk 
on  a  little,  while  I  give  his  character.  We  were  of 
the  same  year  of  St.  John's  College  in  Cambridge: 
he  was  a  younger  brother  of  a  good  family,  was  bred 
to  the  church,  and  had  just  got  a  fellowship  in  the 
college,  when,  his  elder  brother  dying,  he  succeeded 
to  an  easy  fortune,  and  resolved  to  make  himself  easy 
with  it,  that  is,  to  do  nothing.  As  he  had  resided 
long  in  college,  he  had  contracted  all  the  habits,  pre- 
judices, the  laziness,  the  soaking,  the  pride,  and  the 
pedantry  of  the  cloister,  which  after  a  certain  time  are 
never  to  be  rubbed  off.  He  considered  the  critical 
knowledge  of  the  Greek  and  Latin  words,  as  the 
utmost  effort  of  the  human  understanding,  and  a  glass 
of  good  wine  in  good  company,  as  the  highest  pitch 
of  human  felicity.  Accordingly,  he  passes  his  morn- 
ings in  reading  the  classics,  most  of  which  he  has 
long  had  by  heart ;  and  his  evenings  in  drinking  his 
glass  of  good  wine,  which  by  frequent  filling,  amounts 
at  least  to  two,  and  often  to  three  bottles  a-day.  I 
must  not  omit  mentioning  that  my  friend  is  tor- 
mented 


168  A  MODERN  CONVERSATION: 

merited  with  the  stone,  which  misfortune  he  imputes 
to  liaving  once  drank  water  for  a  month,  by  the  pre- 
scription of  the  late  Doctor  Cheyne,  and  by  no  means 
to  at  least  two  quarts  of  claret  a-day,  for  these  last 
thirty  years.  To  return  to  my  friend — '  I  am  very 
'  much  mistaken,'  said  he,  as  we  were  walking  in  the 
park,  '  if  you  do  not  thank  nie  for  procuring  this  day's 
'  entertainment :  lor  a  set  of  worthier  gentlemen  to  be 
'  sure  never  lived.' — '  I  make  no  doubt  of  it,'  said  I, 
'  and  am  therefore  the  more  concerned  when  I  reflect, 
'  that  this  club  of  worthy  gentlemen  might,  by  your 
'  own  account,  be  not  improperly  called  an  hospital 
'  of  incurables,  as  there  is  not  one  among  them  who 
'  does  not  labour  under  some  chronical  and  mortal 
'  distemper.' — '  I  see  what  you  would  be  at,'  answered 
my  friend ;  '  you  would  insinuate  that  it  is  all  owing 
'  to  wine  ;  but  let  me  assure  you,  Mr.  Fitz-Adam, 
'  that  iviiie,  especially  claret,  if  neat  and  good,  can  hurt 
'  110  man.'  I  did  not  reply  to  this  aphorism  of  my 
friend's,  which  I  knew  would  draw  on  too  long  a  dis- 
cussion, especially  as  we  were  just  going  into  the  club- 
room,  where  I  took  it  for  granted,  that  it  was  one  of 
the  great  constitutional  principles.  The  account  of 
this  modern  Symposion  shall  be  the  subject  of  my 
next  paper. 

[September  19,  1754.]  A 


World]  N°  24  [C 


HESTERFIELD 


A  MODERN  CONVERSATION 

— Continued. 


[^Iniplentur  veteris  Bacchi. 

— ViRG.] 


MY  friend  presented  me  to  the  company,  in 
what  he  thought  the  most  obHging  manniir; 
but  which  I  confers  put  me  a  little  out  of  couii. 
tenance.  '  Give  me  leave,  gentlemen,'  said  he,  '  to 
'  present  to  you  my  old  friend,  Mr.  Fitz-Adam,  the 
'  ingenious  author  of  the  World.'  The  word  Author 
instantly  excited  the  attention  of  the  whole  company, 
and  drew  all  their  eyes  upon  me  :  for  people  who  are 
not  apt  to  write  themselves  have  a  strange  curiosity  to 
see  a  Live  Author.  The  gentlemen  received  me  in 
common  with  those  gestures  that  intimate  welcome; 
and  I  on  my  part  respectfully  muttered  some  of  those 

nothings, 


I  JO  A  MODERN  COWERSATION. 

nothings,  which  stand  instead  of  the  something  one 
should  say,  and  perhaps  do  full  as  well. 

The  weather  being  hot,  the  gentlemen  were  re- 
freshing themselves  before  dinner  with  what  they 
called  a  cool  tankard ;  in  which  they  successively 
drank  to  Me.  When  it  came  to  my  turn,  I  thought 
I  could  not  decently  decline  drinking  the  gentlemen's 
healths,  which  I  did  aggregately  :  but  how  was  I  sur- 
prised, when,  upon  the  first  taste,  I  discovered  that 
this  cooling  and  refreshing  draught  was  composed  of 
the  strongest  mountain  wine,  lowered  indeed  with  a 
very  little  lemon  and  water,  but  then  heightened  again 
by  a  quantity  of  those  comfortable  aromatics,  nutmeg 
and  ginger  !  Dinner,  which  had  been  called  for  more 
than  once  with  some  impatience,  was  at  last  brought 
up,  upon  the  colonel's  threatening  perdition  to  the 
master  and  all  the  waiters  of  the  house,  if  it  was 
delayed  two  minutes  longer.  We  sat  down  without 
ceremony ;  and  we  were  no  sooner  sat  down,  than 
everybody  (except  myself)  drank  everybody's  health, 
which  made  -  tumultuous  kind  of  noise.  I  observed, 
with  surprise,  that  the  common  quantity  of  wine  was 
put  into  glasses  of  an  immense  size  and  weight ;  but 
my  surprise  ceased,  when  I  saw  the  tremulous  hands 
that  took  them,  and  for  which  1  supposed  thev  were 

intended 


A  MODi£R\'  COXJ'ERSJTION.  171 

intended  as  ballast.  But  even  this  precaution  did  not 
protect  the  nose  of  Dr.  Carbuncle  from  a  severe  shock, 
in  his  attempt  to  hit  his  mouth.  The  colonel,  who 
observed  this  accident,  cried  out  pleasantly — '  Why, 
'  Doctor,  I  find  vou  are  but  a  bad  engineer.  While 
'  you  aim  at  your  mouth,  you  will  never  hit  it,  take 
*  my  word  for  it.  A  floating  battery,  to  hit  the  mark, 
'  must  be  pointed  something  above,  or  below  it.  If 
'  you  would  hit  your  mouth,  direct  your  four-pounder 
'  at  your  forehead,  or  your  chin.'  The  doctor  good- 
liumouredly  thanked  the  colonel  for  the  hint,  and 
promised  him  to  communicate  it  to  his  friends  at 
Oxford,  where  he  owned  that  he  had  seen  many  a 
good  glass  of  port  spilt  for  want  of  it.  Sir  Tunbelly 
almost  smiled,  Sir  George  laughed,  and  the  whole 
company,  somehow  or  other,  applauded  this  elegant 
piece  of  raillery.  But,  alas  !  things  soon  took  a  less 
pleasant  turn  ;  for  an  enormous  buttock  of  boiled  salt 
beef,  which  had  succeeded  the  soup,  proved  not  to  be 
sufficiently  corned  for  Sir  Tunbelly,  who  had  bespoke 
it;  and,  at  the  same  time.  Lord  Feeble  took  a  dislike 
to  the  claret,  which  he  affirmed  not  to  be  the  same, 
which  they  had  drank  the  day.  before ;  it  had  no  silki- 
ness,  went  rough  off  the  tongue,  and  his  lordship  shrewd- 
ly suspected  that  it  was  mixed  with  Bcnccarlo,  or  some 

of 


172  A  MODERN  COXJ'ERSATION. 

of  Ibosc  black  wines .  This  was  a  common  cause,  and 
excited  universal  attention.  The  whole  company 
tasted  it  seriously,  and  every  one  found  a  difierent 
tault  with  it.  The  master  of  the  house  was  imme- 
diately sent  for  up,  examined,  and  treated  as  a  criminal. 
Sir  Tunbelly  reproached  him  with  the  freshness  of  the 
beef,  while,  at  the  same  time,  all  the  others  fell  upon 
him  for  the  badness  of  his  wine,  telling  him,  that  it 
was  not  fit  usage  for  such  good  customers  as  they 
were  ;  and,  in  fine,  threatening  him  with  a  migra- 
tion of  the  club  to  some  other  house.  The  criminal 
laid  the  blame  of  the  beef's  not  being  corned  enough 
upon  his  cook,  whom  he  promised  to  turn  awav ;  and 
attested  heaven  and  earth  that  the  wine  was  the  very 
same  which  they  had  all  approved  of  the  day  before  ; 
and,  as  he  had  a  soul  to  be  saved,  was  true  Chateau 
Margaux — '  Chateau  devil,'  said  the  Colonel  with 
warmth,  '  it  is  your  rough  Chaos  wine.'  Will  Sitfast, 
who  thought  himself  obliged  to  articulate  upon  this 
occasion,  said,  He  was  not  sure  it  was  a  mixed 
wine,  but  that  indeed  it  drank  down. — '  If  that  is  all,' 
interrupted  the  doctor,  '  let  us  e'en  drink  it  up  then. 
'  Or,  if  that  won't  do,  since  we  cannot  have  the  true 
'  Falernuni,  let  us  take  up  for  once  with  the  vile 
^  Sabinum. — What    say    you,    gentlemen,    to    good 

'  honest 


A  MODERS  COXrERSATIOX.  175 

•  honest  Port,  which  I  am  convinced  is  a  much  whole- 
'  somer  stomach  winer'  My  friend,  who  in  his 
heart  loves  Port  better  than  any  other  wine  in  the 
world,  willingly  seconded  the  doctor's  motion,  and 
spoke  very  favourably  of  your  rortiiigal  wines  in 
general,  if  neat.  Upon  this  some  was  immediately 
brought  up,  which  I  observed  my  friend  and  the 
doctor  stuck  to  the  whole  evening.  I  could  not  help 
asking  the  doctor  if  he  really  preferred  Port  to  lighter 
wines?  To  which  he  answered — 'You  know,  Mr. 
'  Fitz-Adam,  that  use  is  second  nature ;  and  Port  is, 
'  in  a  manner,  mother's  milk  to  me ;  for  it  is  what 
'  my  Alma  Mater  suckles  all  her  numerous  progeny 
'  with.'  I  silently  assented  to  the  doctor's  account, 
which  1  was  convinced  was  a  true  one,  and  then 
attended  to  the  judicious  animadversions  of  the  other 
gentlemen  upon  the  claret,  which  were  still  con- 
tinued, though  at  the  same  time  they  continued  to 
drink  it.  I  hinted  my  surprise  at  this  to  Sir  Tun- 
belly,  who  gravely  answered  me,  and  in  a  moving  way 
— '  W7;v,  what  can  uv  do  '! ' — '  Not  drink  it,'  replied  I, 
'  since  it  is  not  good.' — '  But  what  will  you  have  us 
'  do?  and  how  shall  we  pass  the  evening?'  rejoined 
the  baronet.  '  One  cannot  go  home  at  five  o'clock.' 
— '  That  depends  upon  a  great  deal  of  use,'  said  I. 

'  It 


174  A  MODERN  CONVERSATION. 

'  It  may  be  so,  to  a  certain  degree,'  said  the  doctor. 
'  But  give  me  leave  to  ask  you,  Mr.  Fitz-Adam,  you, 
'  who  drink  nothing  but  water,  and  live  much  at 
'  home,  how  do  j'ou  keep  up  your  spirits?' — '  Why, 
'  Doctor,'  said  I,  '  as  I  never  lowered  my  spirits  by 
'  strong  liquor,  I  do  not  want  to  raise  them.'  Here - 
we  were  interrupted  by  the  colonel's  raising  his  voice 
and  indignation  against  the  Burgundy  and  Cham- 
pagne ;  swearing  that  the  former  was  ropy,  and  the 
latter  upon  the  fret,  and  not  without  some  suspicion 
of  cider  and  sugar-candy  ;  notwithstanding  which,  lie 
drank,  in  a  bumper  of  it,  confusion  to  the  town  of 
Bristol  and  the  Bottle-act.  It  was  a  shame,  he  said, 
that  gentlemen  could  have  no  good  Burgundies  and 
Champagnes,  for  the  sake  of  some  increase  of  the 
revenue,  the  manufacture  of  glass  bottles,  and  such 
sort  of  stuff.  Sir  George  confirmed  the  same,  adding, 
that  it  was  scandalous ;  and  the  whole  company  agreed, 
that  the  new  parliament  would  certainly  repeal  so  ab- 
surd an  act  the  very  first  session  ;  but  if  they  did  not, 
they  hoped  they  would  receive  instructions  to  that 
purpose  from  their  constituents. — '  To  be  sure,'  said 
the  colonel,  '  what  a  rout  they  made  about  the  repe''! 
'  of  the  Jew-bill,  for  which  nobody  cared  one  farthing! 
'  But,  by  the  way,'  continued  he,  '  I  think  everybody 

'  has 


A  MODERX  COXJ'ERSATIOK.         175 

'  has  done  eating,  and  therefore  liad  not  we  better 
*  have  the  dinner  taken  away,  and  the  wine  set  upon 
'  the  table  r '  To  this  the  company  gave  an  unani- 
mous '  Aye  !  '  While  this  was  doing,  I  asked  my 
friend,  with  seeming  seriousness,  whether  no  part  of 
the  dinner  was  to  be  served  up  again,  when  the  wine 
should  be  set  upon  the  table?  He  seemed  surprised 
at  my  question,  and  asked  me  if  I  was  hungry  ?  To 
which  I  answered,  '  No  ; '  but  asked  him,  in  my  turn, 
if  he  was  dry?  To  which  he  also  answered  '  No.' — ■ 
'  Then,  pray,'  replied  I,  '  why  not  as  well  cat  without 
'being  hungr}',  as  drink  without  being  dry?'  My 
friend  was  so  stunned  with  this,  that  he  attempted  no 
reply,  but  stared  at  me  with  as  much  astonishment  as 
he  would  have  done  at  my  great  ancestor  Adam  in  his 
primitive  state  of  nature. 

The  cloth  was  now  taken  away,  and  the  bottles, 
glasses,  and  dish-clouts,  put  upon  the  table ;  when 
Will  Sitfast,  who  I  found  was  a  perpetual  toast-maker, 
took  the  chair,  of  course,  as  the  man  of  application  to 
business.  He  began  the  king's  health  in  a  bumper, 
which  circulated  in  the  same  manner,  not  without 
some  nice  examinations  of  the  chairman  as  to  day-light. 
The  bottle  standing  by  me,  I  was  called  upon  by  the 
chairman  ;  who  added,  that  though  a  water-drinker, 

he 


176  J  MODERN  CONVERSATION. 

he  hoped  I  would  not  refuse  that  health  in  wine  :  t 
begged  to  be  excused,  and  told  him,  that  1  never 
drank  his  majesty's  health  at  all,  tliough  no  one  of 
his  subjects  wished  it  more  heartily  than  I  did.  That 
hitherto  it  had  not  appeared  to  me,  that  there  could 
be  the  least  relation  between  the  wine  I  drank  and 
the  king's  state  of  health  ;  and  that,  till  I  was  con- 
vinced that  impairing  my  own  health  would  improve 
his  majesty's,  I  was  resolved  to  preserve  the  use  of  my 
faculties  and  my  limbs,  to  employ  both  in  liis  service, 
if  he  could  ever  have  occasion  for  them.  I  liad  fore- 
seen the  consequences  of  this  refusal ;  and  though  my 
friend  had  answered  for  my  principles,  I  easily  dis- 
covered an  air  of  suspicion  in  the  countenances  of  the 
company ;  and  I  overheard  the  colonel  whisper  to 
Lord  Feeble — '  This  author  is  a  vcr\  old  dog.' 

My  friend  was  ashamed  of  me  ;  but,  liowever,  to 
help  me  off  as  well  as  he  could,  he  said  to  me  aloud — 
'  Mr.  Fitz-Adam,  this  is  one  of  those  singularities 
'  which  vou  have  contracted  by  living  so  much  alone.' 
From  this  moment  the  company  gave  me  up  to  my 
oddnesses,  and  took  no  further  notice  of  me.  I  leaned 
silently  upon  the  table,  waiting  for  (though,  to  say 
the  truth,  without  expecting)  some  of  that  festal 
gaiety,   that    urbanity,    and    that    elegant    mirth,    of 

which 


A  MODERN  COXFERSATION.  177 

\vliich  my  friend  had  promised  so  large  a  share.  In- 
stead of  all  which,  the  conversation  ran  chiefly  into 
narrative,  and  grew  duller  and  duller  with  every 
bottle.  Lord  Feeble  recounted  his  former  achieve- 
ments in  love  and  wine;  the  colonel  complained, 
though  with  dignity,  of  hardships  and  injustice  ;  Sir 
George  hinted  at  some  important  discoveries  which 
he  had  made  that  dav  at  court,  but  cautiously  avoided 
naming  names  ;  Sir  Tunbolly  slept  between  glass 
and  glass  ;  the  doctor  and  my  friend  talked  over 
college  matters,  and  quoted  Latin  ;  and  our  worthy 
president  applied  himself  wholly  to  business,  never 
speaking  but  to  order  ;  as — '  Sir,  the  bottle  stands 
'  with  you — Sir,  you  are  to  name  a  toast — That  has 
*  been  drank  already — Here,  more  claret !  '  &c.  In 
the  height  of  all  this  convivial  pleasantry,  which  I 
plainly  saw  was  come  to  its  zenith,  I  stole  away  at 
about  nine  o'clock,  and  went  home  ;  where  reflections 
upon  the  entertainment  of  the  day  crowded  into  my 
mind,  and  may  perhaps  be  the  subject  of  some  future 
paper. 

[September  26,  1754.] 


THE 
H 


Connoisseur]  N      25  [Colman  and 

Thornton 

THE  SQUIRE  IN  ORDERS. 


Gaiiilct  cqiiis  canibusquc,  ct  aprici  giaiiiiuc  cniiipi. 

— Hou. 


M 


Y  Cousin  Village,  from  wliom  I  had  not  heard 
for  some  time,  has  lately  sent  me  an  account 
of  a  Country  Parson,  which  I  daresay  will  prove  enter- 
taining to  my  town  readers,  who  can  have  no  other 
idea  of  our  clergy  than  what  they  have  collected  from 
the  spruce  and  genteel  figures  which  they  have  beuii 
u>ed  to  contemplate  here  in  doctors'  scarfs,  pudding- 
sleeves,  starched  bands,  and  feather-top  gri/.zles.  It 
will  be  found  from  mv  cousins'  description,  that  these 
reverend  eniiigns  of  orthodoxy  are  not  so  necessary  to 
be  displaved  among  the  rustics  ;  and  that,  when  they 
are  out  of  the  pulpit  or  surplice,  the  good  pastors  may, 
without  censure,  put  on  the  manne  s  as  well  as  dress 
cf  a  groom  or  whipper-in. 

DONCASTCR, 


THE  SQUIRE  IN  ORDERS.  179 

DoxcASTER,  Jan.  14,  1756. 

Dear  Cousin, 
T   AM  just  arrived  here,  after  liaving  paid  a  visit  to 
our  old  acquaintance  Jack  duickset,  who  is  now 

become  the  Reverend  Mr.  duickset,  rector  of 

parish  in  the  North-Riding  of  this  county,  a  living 
worth  upwards  of  three  hundred  pounds  per  aim.  As 
the  ceremonies  of  ordination  have  occasioned  no  altera- 
tion in  Jack's  morals  or  behaviour,  the  figure  he  makes 
in  the  church  is  somewhat  remarkable  :  but  as  there 
are  many  other  incumbents  of  country  livings,  whose 
clerical  characters  will  be  found  to  tally  with  his, 
perhaps  a  slight  sketch,  or,  as  I  may  say,  rough 
liraught  of  him,  with  some  account  of  my  visit,  will 
not  be  unentertaining  to  your  readers. 

Jack,  hearing  that  I  was  in  this  part  of  the  world, 
sent  me  a  very  hearty  letter,  informing  me  that  he 
had  been  doiibie  japanned  (as  he  called  it)  about  a  year 

ago,  and  was  the  present  incumbent  of ;  where, 

if  I  would  favour  him  with  my  company,  he  would 
give  me  a  cup  of  the  best  Yorkshire  Stingo,  and  would 
engage  to  shew  me  a  noble  day's  sport,  as  he  was  in  a 
fine  open  country  with  plenty  of  foxes.  I  rejoiced  to 
hear  he  was  so  comfortably  settled,  and  set  out  imme- 
diately for  his  living.      When  I   arrived  within  the 

gate. 


i8o  THE  SQUIRE  IX  ORDERS. 

gate,  mv  ears  were  alarmed  with  such  a  loud  chorus 
of  '  No  mortals  on  earth  arc  so  jovial  as  we,'  that  I 
began  to  think  I  had  made  a  mistake ;  but  its  close 
neighbourhood  to  the  church  soon  convinced  me  that 
this  could  be  no  other  than  the  Parsonage-house. 
On  my  entrance,  my  friend  (whom  I  found  in  the 
midst  of  a  room-full  of  fox-hunters  in  boots  and  bob- 
wigs)  got  up  to  welcome  me  to ,  and  embracing 

me,  gave  me  the  full  flavour  of  his  Stingo  by  breathing 
in  my  face,  as  he  did  me  the  honour  of  saluting  me. 
He  then  introduced  me  to  his  friends  ;  and  placing  me 
at  the  right  hand  of  his  own  elbow  chair,  assured  them 
that  I  was  a  very  honest  Cock,  and  loved  a  chase  of  tive- 
and-twenty  miles  on  end  as  well  as  an\-  of  them  :  to 
preserve  the  credit  of  which  character,  1  was  obliged 
to  comply  with  an  injur.ction  to  tos;.  o!t  a  pint  bumper 
of  Port,  with  the  foot  of  the  fo;-.  dipped  and  squeezed 
into  it  to  give  a  zest  to  the  liquor. 

The  whole  economy  of  Jack's  life  is  very  different 
from  that  of  his  brethren.  Instead  of  having  a  wife 
and  a  house-full  of  children  (the  most  common  family 
of  a  country  clergyman),  he  is  single  ;  unless  we  credit 
some  idle  whispers  in  the  parish  that  he  is  married  to 
his  housekeeper.  The  calm  amusements  of  piquet, 
chess,  and  backgammon,   have   no  charms  for  Jack, 

wlio 


THE  SQUIRE  J.V  ORDERS.  iRt 

who  '  sees  his  dearest  action  in  tlie  field,'  and  boasts 
that  he  has  a  brace  of  as  good  hunters  in  his  stable  as 
ever  leg  was  laid  over.  liiniting  and  shooting  are 
the  only  business  of  his  life  ;  fox-hounds  and  pointers 
lay  about  in  everv  parlour;  and  he  is  himself,  like 
Pistol,  always  in  boots.  The  estimation  in  which  he 
holds  his  friends  is  rated  according  to  their  excellence 
as  sportsmen  ;  and  to  be  able  to  makear;ood  shot,  or 
hunt  a  pack  of  hounds  well,  are  n'.03t  recommending 
qualities.  His  parishioners  oltcn  earn  a  shilling  ;'.nd 
a  cup  of  ale  at  his  house,  by  coming  to  acquaint  him 
that  they  have  found  a  hare  sitting,  or  a  fox  in  cover. 
One  day,  when  I  was  alone  with  my  friend,  the  ser- 
vant came  in  to  tell  him  that  the  clerk  wanted  to 
.speak  with  him.  He  was  ordered  in  ;  but  I  could 
not  help  smiling,  when  (instead  of  giving  notice  of  a 
burying,  christening,  or  some  other  church  business, 
as  I  expected)  I  found  the  honest  clerk  came  only  to 
acquaint  his  reverend  superior  that  there  was  a  covev 
of  partridges,  of  a  dozen  brace  at  least,  not  above  three 
fields  from  the  house. 

Jack's  elder  brother,  Sir  Thomas  Q.uickset,  who 
gave  him  the  benefice,  is  lord  of  the  manor  ;  so  that 
Jack  has  full  power  to  beat  up  the  game  unmolested. 
He  goes  out  three  times  a-week  with  his  brother's 

hounds, 


i82  THE  SQUIRE  IN  ORDERS. 

liounds,  whether  Sir  Thomas  hunts  or  net;  and  has 
besides  a  deputation  from  him  as  lord  of  the  manor, 
consigning  the  game  to  his  care,  and  empowering 
him  to  take  away  all  guns,  nets,  and  dogs,  from  per- 
sons not  duly  qualified,  jack  is  more  proud  of  his 
office,  than  many  other  country  clergymen  are  of 
being  in  the  commission  of  the  peace.  Poaching  is, 
in  his  eye,  the  most  heinous  crime  in  the  two  tables; 
nor  does  the  care  of  souls  appear  to  him  half  so  im- 
portant a  duty  as  the  preservation  of  the  game. 

Sunday,  you  may  suppose,  is  as  dull  and  tedious  to 
this  ordained  sportsman  as  to  any  fine  lady  in  town  : 
not  that  he  makes  the  duties  of  his  function  any 
fatigue  to  him,  but  as  this  day  is  necessarily  a  day 
of  rest  from  the  usual  toils  of  shooting  and  the  chase. 
It  happened  that  the  first  Sunday  after  I  was  with 
him,  he  had  engaged  to  take  care  of  a  church,  which 
was  about  twenty  miles  ofi',  in  the  absence  of  a 
neighbouring  clergyman.  He  asked  me  to  accompany 
him  ;  and  the  more  to  encourage  me,  he  assured  me 
that  we  should  ride  over  as  fine  a  champaign  open 
country  as  any  in  the  North.  Accordingly  I  was 
roused  by  him  in  the  morning  before  day-break,  by  a 
loud  hallooing  of  '  Hark  to  Merriman  ! '  and  the  re- 
peated smacks  of  his  half-hunter ;  and  after  we  had 

fortified 


THE  SQUIRE  IN  ORDERS.  i«3 

fortified  our  stomachs  with  several  slices  of  hung  beef, 
and  a  horn  or  two  of  Stingo,  we  sallied  forth.  Jack 
was  mounted  upon  a  hunter  which  he  assured  me 
was  never  yet  thnnvn  out :  and  as  we  rode  along,  he 
could  not  help  lamenting  that  so  fine  a  soft  morning 
should  be  thrown  away  upon  a  Sunday  ;  at  the  same 
time  remarking  that  the  dogs  might  run  breast  high. 

Though  we  made  the  best  of  our  way  over  hedge 
and  ditch,  and  took  everything,  we  were  often  delayed 
by  trying  if  we  could  prick  a  hare,  or  by  leaving  the 
road  to  examine  a  piece  of  cover ;  and  he  frequently 
made  me  stop  while  he  pointed  out  the  particular 
course  that  Reynard  took,  or  the  spot  where  he  had 
carth'd.  At  length  we  arrived  on  full  gallop  at  the 
church,  where  we  found  the  congregation  waiting  for 
us ;  but  as  Jack  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  alight,  pull 
his  band  out  of  the  sermon-case,  give  his  brown 
scratch  bob  a  shake,  and  clap  on  the  surplice,  he  was 
presently  equipped  for  the  service.  In  short,  he  be- 
haved himself,  both  in  the  desk  and  pulpit,  to  the 
entire  satisfaction  of  all  the  parish,  as  well  as  the 
squire  of  it,  who,  after  thanking  J.ick  for  his  excellent 
discourse,  very  cordially  took  us  home  to  dinner  with 
him. 

I   shall   not   trouble  you  with   an   account  of  our 

entertainment 


i84  THE  SQUIRE  LV  ORDERS. 

entertainment  at  the  squire's  ;  who,  being  himself  as 
keen  a  sportsman  as  ever  followed  a  pack  of  dogs,  was 
hugely  delighted  with  Jack's  conversation.  '  Church 
*  and  King,'  and  another  particular  toast  (in  compli- 
menT:,  I  suppose,  to  my  friend's  clerical  character) 
were  the  first  drank  after  dinner  ;  but  these  were 
directly  followed  by  a  pint  bumper  to  '  Horses  sound, 
'  Dogs  healthy.  Earths  stopt,  and  Foxes  plenty.' 
When  we  had  run  over  again,  with  great  joy  and 
vociferation,  as  many  chases  as  the  time  would  per- 
mit, the  bell  called  us  to  evening  prayers ;  alter 
which,  though  the  squire  would  fain  have  had  us 
stay  and  take  a  hunt  with  him,  we  mounted  our 
horses  at  the  church  door,  and  rode  home  in  the 
dark  ;  because  Jack  had  engaged  to  meet  several  of 
his  brother  sportsmen,  who  were  to  lie  all  night  at 
his  own  house,  to  be  in  readiness  to  make  up  for  the 
loss  of  Sunday,  by  going  out  a-cock-shooting  very 
early  the  next  morning. 

I  must  leave  it  to  you.  Cousin,  to  make  what 
reflections  vou  please  on  this  character  :  only  ob- 
serving, that  the  countrv  can  furnish  man}'  instances 
of  these  ordained  sportsmen,  whose  thoughts  arc 
more  taken  up  with  the  stable  or  the  dog-kennel, 
than  the  church  ;  and  indeed,  it  will  be  found  that 

our 


THE  SQUIRE  IS'  ORDERS.  1.S5 

our  I'rieiid  Jack  and  all  of  his  stamp  arc  regarded  by 
their  parishioners,  not  as  Parsons  of  tlic  Parish,  hut 
rather  as  Squires  in  Orders. 

I  am,  dear  Cousin,  yours,  &>;. 

[January  2C),  1736. J 


COUyTRY 


CoXKOISStUR]  ^         20  [COWPER 

COUNTRY  CONGREGATIONS. 


Delicla  inajorum  iinmeriins  lues, 
Roiiiane,  donee  ieinpla  refeceris 
.adcsque  lahentes  deonim,  et 
Foeda  nigro  simulacra  fiiiiw. 

—  HOR. 


Dear  Cousin, 
^  I  ""HE  country  at  present,  no  less  than  the  metro- 
-^  polis,  abounding  with  politicians  of  every  kind, 
I  begun  to  despair  of  picking  up  any  intelligence  that 
might  possibly  be  entertaining  to  your  readers.  How- 
ever, I  have  lately  visited  some  of  the  most  distant 
parts  of  the  kingdom  with  a  clergyman  of  my  acquaint- 
ance :  I  shall  not  trouble  you  with  an  account  of  the 
improvements  that  have  been  made  in  the  seats  we 
saw  according  to  the  modern  taste,  but  proceed  to  give 
you  some  reflections,  which  occurred  to  us  on  observ- 
ing 


COUXTRY  COXGREGATIOXS.  187 

iiiT  several  country  cliurches,  and   the   beliaviour  of 
the  congregations. 

The  ruinous  condition  of  sc.nc  of  these  edifices 
gave  me  great  oflence;  and  I  could  not  help  wishing, 
that  the  honest  vicar,  instead  of  indulging  his  genius 
for  improvements,  by  inclosing  his  gooseberry  bushes 
within  a  Chinese  rail,  and  converting  half-an-acre  of 
his  glebe-land  into  a  bowling-green,  would  have  applied 
part  of  his  income  to  the  more  laudable  purpose  of 
sheltering  his  parishioners  from  the  weather,  during 
their  attendance  on  divine  service.  It  is  no  uncont- 
mon  thing  to  see  the  parsonage-house  well-thatched, 
and  in  exceeding  good  repair,  while  the  church  per- 
haps has  scarce  any  other  roof  than  the  ivy  that  grows 
over  it.  The  noise  of  owls,  bats,  and  magpies,  makes 
the  principal  part  of  the  church-music  in  many  of 
these  ancient  edifices;  and  the  walls,  like  a  large  map, 
seem  to  be  portioned  out  into  capes,  seas,  and  pro- 
montories, by  the  various  colours  by  which  the  damps 
have  stained  them.  Sometimes,  the  foundation  being 
too  weak  to  support  the  steeple  any  longer,  it  has  been 
expedient  to  pull  down  that  part  of  the  building,  and 
to  hang  the  bells  under  a  wooden  shed  on  the  ground 
beside  it.  This  is  the  case  in  a  parish  in  Norfolk, 
through  which  I  lately  passed,  and  where  the  clerk 

and 


iS8  rOUXTRY  COXGREGATIONS. 

and  the  sexton,  like  the  two  figures  at  St.  Dunstan's, 
serve  the  bells  in  capacity'  oi'  clappers,  by  strikino- 
them  alternately  with  a  hammer. 

In  other  churches  I  have  observed,  that  nothino' 
unseemly  or  ruinous  is  to  be  found,  except  in  the 
clergyman,  and  the  appendages  of  his  person.  The 
squire  of  the  parish,  or  his  ancestors,  perhaps,  to 
testify  their  devotion,  and  leave  a  lasting  monument 
of  their  magnificence,  have  adorned  the  altar-piece 
with  the  richest  crimson  velvet,  embroidered  with 
vine-leaves  and  ears  of  wheat ;  and  have  dressed  up 
the  pulpit  with  the  same  splendour  and  expense; 
while  the  gentleman,  who  fills  it,  is  exalted  in  the 
midst  of  all  this  finery,  with  a  surplice  as  dirty  as  a 
farmer's  frock,  and  a  periwig  that  seems  to  have  trans- 
ferred its  faculty  of  curling  to  the  band  which  appears 
in  full  buckle  beneath  it. 

But  if  I  was  concerned  to  see  several  distressed 
pastors,  as  well  as  many  of  our  country  churches  in  a 
tottering  condition,  I  was  more  ofTended  with  the 
indecency  of  worship  in  others.  I  could  wish  that 
the  clergy  would  inform  their  congregations,  that 
there  is  no  occasion  to  scream  themselves  hoarse  in 
making  the  responses;  that  the  town-crier  is  not  the 
only  person  qualified  to  pray  with  due  devotion;  and 

th.it 


COUXTRY  COXGREG.^TIOXS.  189 

tliat  he  who  bawls  the  loudest  may,  nevertheless,  be 
the  wickedest  fellow  in  the  parish.  The  old  women 
too  in  the  aisle  might  be  told,  that  their  time  would 
be  better  employed  in  attending  to  the  sermon,  than 
in  fumbling  over  their  tattered  testaments  till  they 
have  found  the  text;  by  which  time  the  discourse  is 
near  drawing  to  a  conclusion  :  while  a  word  or  two  of 
instruction  might  not  be  thrown  away  upon  the 
vounger  part  of  the  congregation,  to  teach  them  that 
making  posies  in  summer  time,  and  cracking  nuts  in 
autumn,  is  no  part  of  the  religious  ceremony. 

The  good  old  practice  of  psalm-singing  is,  indeed, 
wonderfully  improved  in  many  country  churches  since 
the  davs  of  Sternhold  and  Hopkins ;  and  there  is  scarce 
a  parish-clerk,  who  has  so  little  taste  as  not  to  pick 
his  staves  out  of  the  New  Version.  This  has  occa- 
sioned great  complaints  in  some  places,  where  the 
clerk  has  been  forced  to  bawl  by  himself,  because  the 
rest  of  the  congregation  cannot  find  the  psalm  at  the 
end  of  their  prayer-books  ;  while  others  are  highly 
disgusted  at  the  innovation,  and  stick  as  obstinately 
to  the  Old  Version  as  to  the  Old  Style.  The  tunes 
themselves  have  also  been  new-set  to  jiggish  measures ; 
and  the  sober  drawl,  which  used  to  accompany  the 
two   first  staves   of  the   hundredth   psalm,  with  the 

gloria 


I90  COUNTRY  CONGREGATIONS. 

t;\->ria  pntri,  is  now  split  into  as  many  quavers  as  an 
Italian  air.  For  this  purpose  there  is  in  every  county 
an  itinerant  band  of  vocal  musicians,  who  make  it 
their  business  to  go  round  to  all  the  churches  in  their 
turns,  and,  after  a  prelude  with  the  pitch-pipe,  astonish 
the  audience  with  hymns  set  to  the  new  Winchester 
measure,  and  anthems  of  their  own  composing.  As 
these  new-fashioned  psalmodists  are  necessarily  made 
up  of  young  men  and  maids,  we  may  naturally  sup- 
pose, that  there  is  a  perfect  concord  and  symphony 
between  them :  and,  indeed,  I  have  known  it  happen 
that  these  sweet  singers  h.ive  more  than  once  been 
brought  into  disgrace,  by  too  close  an  unison  be- 
tween the  thorough-bass  and  the  treble. 

It  is  a  difficult  matter  to  decide,  which  is  looked 
upon  as  the  greatest  man  in  a  country  church,  the 
parson  or  his  clerk.  The  latter  is  most  certainly 
held  in  higher  veneration,  where  the  former  happens 
to  be  only  a  poor  curate,  who  rides  post  every  Sab- 
bath from  village  to  village,  and  mounts  and  dis- 
mounts at  the  church  door.  The  clerk's  office  is  not 
only  to  tag  the  prayers  with  an  Amen,  or  usher  in 
the  sermon  with  a  stave ;  but  he  is  also  the  universal 
father  tp  give  away  the  brides,  and  the  standing  god- 
father to  all  the  new-born  bantlings.     But  in  many 

places 


COUSTRY  COXGRnGJTIOXS.  191 

places  there  is  a  still  greater  man  belonging  to  the 
church,  than  either  the  parson  or  the  clerk  himself. 
The  person  I  mean  is  the  Squire  ;  who,  like  the  King, 
may  be  styled  Head  of  the  Church  in  his  own  parish. 
If  the  benefice  be  in  his  own  gift,  the  vicar  is  his 
creature,  and  of  consequence  entirely  at  his  devo- 
tion :  or,  if  the  care  of  the  church  be  left  to  a  curate. 
the  Sunday  fees  of  roast  beef  and  plum  pudding,  an, I 
a  liberty  to  shoot  in  the  manor,  will  bring  him  a; 
much  under  the  Squire's  command  as  his  dogs  and 
horses.  For  this  reason  the  bell  is  often  kept  tolling, 
and  the  people  waiting  in  the  church-yard  an  liour 
longer  than  the  usual  time  ;  nor  must  the  service 
begin  till  the  Squire  has  strutted  up  the  aisle,  and 
seated  himself  in  the  great  pew  in  the  chancel.  The 
length  of  the  sermon  is  also  measured  by  the  will 
of  the  Squire,  as  formerlv  bv  the  hour-glass  :  and  I 
kno'.v  one  parish  where  the  preacher  has  always 
the  complaisance  to  conclude  his  discourse,  however 
abruptly,  the  minute  that  the  Squire  gives  the  signal, 
by  rising  up  after  his  nap. 

In  a  village  church,  the  Squire's  lady  or  the  vicar's 
wife  are  perhaps  the  only  females  that  are  stared  at 
for  their  finery  :  but  in  the  larger  cities  and  towns, 
where  the  newest  fashions  are  brought  down  weekly 

by 


192  COUNTRY  COXGREG.4TIONS. 

by  tl:e  stage-coach  or  Nvaggon,  all  the  wives  and 
I'augliters  of  the  most  topping  tradesmen  vie  with 
each  other  every  Sunday  in  the  elegance  of  their 
apparel.  I  could  even  trace  their  gradations  in  their 
dress,  according  to  the  opulence,  the  extent,  and  the 
distance  of  the  place  from  London.  I  was  at  church 
in  a  populous  city  in  the  North,  where  the  mace-bearcr 
cleared  the  way  for  Mrs.  Mayoress,  who  came  sidling 
after  him  in  an  enormous  fan-hoop,  of  a  pattern  which 
had  never  been  seen  before  in  those  parts.  At  another 
church,  in  a  corporation  town,  I  saw  several  Negli- 
gees, with  furbellowed  aprons,  which  had  long  dis- 
puted the  prize  of  superiority :  but  these  were  mo.,t 
wofully  eclipsed  by  a  burgess's  daughter,  just  come 
from  London,  who  appeared  in  a  TroUope  or  Slani- 
merkin,  with  treble  ruffles  to  the  cuffs,  pinked  and 
gimped,  and  the  sides  of  the  petticoat  drawn  up  in 
festoons.  In  some  lesser  borough  towns,  the  contest, 
I  found,  lay  between  three  or  four  black  and  green 
bibs  and  aprons ;  at  one,  a  gi'ocer's  wife  attracted  our 
eves,  bv  a  new-fashioned  cap,  called  a  Joan  ;  and,  at 
another,  they  were  wholly  taken  up  by  a  mercer's 
daughter  in  a  Nun's  Hood. 

I   need  not  say  anytliing  of  the  behaviour  of  the 
congregations  in  the^e  mure  polite  places  of  religious 

report ; 


COUNTRY  COXGREG.-ITIONS.  195 

resort ;  as  the  same  genteel  ceremonies  are  practised 
there,  as  at  the  most  fashionable  churches  in  town. 
The  ladies,  immediately  on  their  entrance,  breathe  a 
pious  ejaculation  through  their  fan-sticks,  and  the 
beaux  very  gravely  address  themselves  to  the  Haber- 
dashers' Bills,  glued  upon  the  linings  of  their  hats. 
This  pious  duty  is  no  sooner  performed,  than  the 
exercise  of  bowing  and  curtsying  succeeds;  the  lock- 
ing and  unlocking  of  the  pews  drowns  the  reader's 
voice  at  the  beginning  of  the  service  ;  and  the  rustling 
of  silks,  added  to  the  whispering  and  tittering  of  so 
much  good  company,  renders  him  totally  unintelli- 
gible to  the  very  end  of  it. 

I  am,  dear  Cousin,  yours,  &c. 

[August  19,  1756.] 


IS 


THE 


Idlf.r]  N*^  27  [Johnson 

DICK  MINIM  THE  CRtTIC. 


[Inter-siirpit  anscr  olorcs. 

— VlRG.] 


CRITICISM  is  a  study  by  which  men  grow  im- 
portant and  formidable  at  very  small  expense. 
The  power  of  invention  has  been  conferred  by  Nature 
upon  few,  and  the  labour  of  learning  those  sciences 
which  may,  by  mere  labour,  be  obtained,  is  too  great 
to  be  willingly  endured  ;  but  every  man  can  exert 
such  judgment  as  he  has  upon  the  works  of  others: 
and  he  whom  Nature  has  made  weak,  and  Idleness 
keeps  ignorant,  may  yet  support  his  vanity  by  the 
name  of  a  Critic. 

I  hope  it  will  give  comfort  to  great  numbers  who 
are  passing  through  the  world  in  obscurity,  when  I 
inform  them  how  easily  distinction  may  be  obtained. 
All  the   other   powers    of    literature    are    coy   and 

haughty 


DICK  \riXIM  THE  CRITIC.  195 

hauglnv  ;  tliey  must  be  long  courted,  and  at  last  are 
not  always  gained  :  but  Criticism  is  a  goddess  easy  of 
access,  and  forward  of  advance,  who  will  meet  the 
slow,  and  encourage  the  timorous ;  the  want  of 
meaning  she  supplies  with  words,  and  the  want  of 
spirit  she  recompenses  with  malignity. 

This  profession  has  one  recommendation  peculiar  to 
itself,  that  it  gives  vent  to  malignity  without  real 
mischief.  No  genius  was  ever  blasted  by  the  breath 
of  critics.  The  poison  which,  if  confined,  would 
have  burst  the  heart,  fumes  away  in  empty  hisses, 
and  malice  is  set  at  ease  with  very  little  danger  to 
merit.  The  critic  is  the  only  man  whose  triumph  is 
without  another's  pain,  and  whose  greatness  does  not 
rise  upon  another's  ruin. 

To  a  study  at  once  so  easy  and  so  reputable,  so 
malicious  and  so  harmless,  it  cannot  be  necessary  to 
invite  my  readers  by  a  long  or  laboured  exhortation  ; 
it  is  sufficient,  since  all  would  be  critics  if  they  could, 
to  shew  by  one  eminent  e~xample,  that  all  can  be 
critics  if  they  will. 

Dick  Minim,  after  the  common  course  of  puerile 
studies,  iu  which  he  was  no  great  proficient,  was  put 
apprentice  to  a  brewer,  with  whom  he  had  lived  two 
years,  when  his  uncle  died  in  the  city,  and  left  him  a 

larae 


196  DICK  MINIM  THE  CRITIC. 

large  fortune  in  the  stocks.  Dick  liad  for  six  months 
before  used  the  company  of  the  lower  players,  of 
^vhom  he  had  learned  to  scorn  a  trade ;  and  being  now 
at  liberty  to  follow  his  genius,  he  resolved  to  be  a 
man  of  wit  and  humour.  That  he  might  be  properly 
initiated  in  his  new  character,  he  frequented  the 
coffee-houses  near  the  theatres,  where  he  listened  very 
diligently,  day  after  day,  to  those  who  talked  of  lan- 
guage and  sentiments,  and  unities  and  catastrophes, 
till,  by  slow  degrees,  he  began  to  think  that  he  under- 
stood something  of  the  stage,  and  hoped  in  time  to 
talk  himself. 

But  he  did  not  trust  so  much  to  natural  sagacity, 
as  wholly  to  neglect  the  help  of  books.  When  the 
theatres  were  shut,  he  retired  to  Richmond  with  a 
few  select  writers,  whose  opinions  he  impressed  upon 
liis  memory  by  unwearied  diligence  ;  and  when  he 
returned  with  other  wits  to  the  town,  was  able  to  tell 
in  very  proper  phrases,  that  the  chief  business  of  art 
is  to  copy  nature  ;  that  a  perfect  writer  is  not  to 
be  expected,  because  genius  decays  as  judgment  in- 
creases ;  that  the  great  art  is  the  art  of  blotting  ;  and 
that,  according  to  the  rule  of  Horace,  every  piece 
should  be  kept  nine  years. 

Of  the  great  authors  he  now  began  to  display  tlie 

characters. 


DICK  MIXIM  THE  CRITIC.  197 

characters,  laying  down,  as  an  universal  position,  that 
all  had  beauties  and  defects.  His  opinion  was,  that 
Shakespeare,  committing  himself  wholly  to  the  impulse 
of  nature,  wanted  that  correctness  which  learning 
v\'ould  liave  given  him  ;  and  that  Jonson,  trusting  to 
learning,  did  not  sufficiently  cast  his  eye  on  nature. 
He  blamed  the  Stanza  of  Spenser,  and  could  not  bear 
the  Hexameters  of  Sidney.  Denham  and  Waller  he 
held  the  first  reformers  of  English  numbers ;  and 
thought  that  if  Waller  could  have  obtained  the  strength 
of  Denham,  or  Denham  the  sweetness  of  Waller,  there 
had  been  nothing  wanting  to  complete  a  poet.  He 
often  expressed  his  commiseration  of  Dryden's  poverty, 
and  his  indignation  at  the  age  which  suffered  him  to 
write  for  bread  ;  he  repeated  with  rapture  the  first 
linej  of  All  for  Love,  but  wondered  at  the  corruption 
of  taste  which  could  bear  anything  so  unnatural  as 
rhyming  tragedies.  In  Otway  he  found  uncommon 
powers  of  moving  the  passions,  but  was  disgusted  by 
his  general  negligence,  and  blamed  him  for  making  a 
conspirator  his  hero ;  and  never  concluded  his  dis- 
quisition, without  remarking  how  happily  the  sound 
of  the  clock  is  made  to  alarm  the  audience.  Southernc 
would  have  been  his  favourite,  but  that  he  mixes 
comic  with  tragic  scenes,  intercepts  the  natural  course 

of 


198  DICK  MINIM  THE  CRITIC. 

of  tlie  passions,  and  fills  the  mind  with  a  wild  con- 
fusion of  mirth  and  melancholy.  The  versification 
of  Rowe  he  thought  too  melodious  for  the  stage,  and 
too  little  varied  in  difterent  passions.  He  made  it  the 
great  fault  of  Congreve,  that  all  his  persons  were 
wits,  and  that  he  always  wrote  with  more  art  than 
nature.  He  considered  Cato  rather  as  a  poem  than  a 
play,  and  allowed  Addison  to  be  the  complete  master 
of  allegory  and  grave  humour,  but  paid  no  great 
deference  to  him  as  a  critic.  He  thought  the  chief 
merit  of  Prior  was  in  his  easy  tales  and  lighter  poems, 
though  he  allowed  that  his  Solomon  had  many  noble 
sentiments  elegantly  expressed.  In  Swift  he  disco- 
vered an  inimitable  vein  of  irony,  and  an  easiness 
which  all  would  hope  and  few  would  attain.  Pope  he 
was  inclined  to  degrade  from  a  poet  to  a  versifier,  and 
thought  his  numbers  rather  luscious  than  sweet.  He 
often  lamented  the  neglect  of  Phxdra  and  Hippolitus, 
and  wished  to  see  the  stage  under  better  regulations. 

These  assertions  passed  commonly  uncontradicted  •, 
and  if  now  and  then  an  opponent  started  up,  he  was 
quickly  repressed  by  the  suffrages  of  the  company, 
and  Minim  went  away  from  every  dispute  with  ela- 
tion of  heart  and  increase  of  confidence. 

He  now  grew  conscious  of  his  abilities,  and  began 

to 


DICK  MIXIM  THE  CRITIC.  199 

to  talk  of  the  present  state  of  dramatic  poetrv  ;  won- 
dered what  was  become  ot  the  comic  genius  which 
supplied  our  ancestors  with  wit  and  pleasantry,  and 
why  no  writer  could  be  found  that  durst  now  venture 
beyond  a  farce.  He  saw  no  reason  for  thinking  that 
the  vein  of  humour  was  exhausted,  since  we  live  in  a 
country  where  liberty  suffers  every  character  to  spread 
itself  to  its  utmost  bulk,  and  which  therefore  produces 
more  originals  than  all  the  rest  of  the  world  together. 
Of  tragedy  he  concluded  business  to  be  the  soul,  and 
yet  often  hinted  that  love  predominates  too  much 
upon  the  modern  stage. 

He  was  now  an  acknowledged  critic,  and  had  his 
own  seat  in  a  coffee-house,  and  headed  a  patty  in  the 
pit.  Minim  has  more  vanitv  than  ill-nature,  and 
seldom  desires  to  do  much  mischief;  he  will  perhaps 
murmur  a  little  in  the  ear  of  him  that  sits  next  him, 
but  endeavours  to  inffuence  the  audience  to  favour,  by 
clapping  when  an  actor  exclaims,  Yc  Geds  !  or  laments 
the  misery  of  his  country. 

By  degrees  he  was  admitted  to  rehearsals ;  and 
many  of  his  friends  are  of  opinion,  that  our  present 
poets  are  indebted  to  him  for  their  happiest  thoughts; 
by  his  contrivance  the  bell  was  rung  twice  in  Bar- 
barossa  ;  and  by  his  persuasion  the  author  of  Cleone 

concluded 


200  DICK  MIXIM  THE  CRITIC. 

concluded  his  play  without  a  couplet  ;  for  what  can 
be  more  absurd,  said  Minim,  than  that  part  of  a  play 
should  be  rhymed,  and  part  written  in  blank  verse  ? 
and  by  what  acquisition  of  faculties  is  the  speaker, 
who  never  could  find  rhymes  before,  enabled  to 
rhyme  at  the  conclusion  of  an  act? 

He  is  the  great  investigator  of  hidden  beauties,  and 
is  particularly  delighted  when  he  finds  I  he  sound  an 
echo  to  the  sense.  He  has  read  all  our  poets  with  par- 
ticular attention  to  this  delicacy  of  versification,  and 
wonders  at  the  supineness  with  which  their  works 
have  been  hitherto  perused,  so  that  no  man  has  found 
the  sound  of  a  drum  in  this  distich  : 

'  When  pulpit,  drum  ecclesiastic, 

'  Was  beat  with  fist  iusiead  of  a  stick  ; ' 

and  that  the  wonderl'iil  lines  upon  Honour  and  a 
Bubble  have  hitherto  passed  without  notice  : 

'  Honour  is  like  the  glassy  bubb'e, 

'  Which  cost  philo^ophers  such  trouble; 

'  Where,  one  part  crack'd,  the  whole  does  fly, 

'And  wits  are  crack'd  to  find  out  why.' 

In   these  verses,  says  Minim,   we  have  two  striking 
accommodations  of  the  sound  to  the  sense.     It  is  im- 
possible 


DICK  MINIM  THE  CRITIC.  201 

possible  to  utter  the  two  lines  empliatically  without 
an  act  like  that  which  they  describe ;  Biibhle  and 
Trouble  causing  a  momentary  inflation  of  the  cheeks 
by  the  retention  of  the  breath,  which  is  afterwards 
forcibly  emitted,  as  in  the  practice  of  blowing  bubbles. 
But  the  greatest  excellence  is  in  the  third  line,  which 
is  crack'd  in  the  middle  to  express  a  crack,  and  then 
shivers  into  monosyllables.  Yet  has  this  diamond 
lain  neglected  witli  common  stones ;  and  among  the 
innumerable  admirers  of  Hudibras  the  observation  of 
this  superlative  passage  has  been  reserved  for  tho 
sagacity  of  iMinim. 

[June  9,  1759.] 


DICK 


Idler]  N*"    28  [Johnson 

DICK  MINIM   THE   CRITIC 

— Conlijiiicd. 


[Dt  /(■,  Daiiiasippc,  Dcicqitc 
Vi'i'iiiii  oh  avniliiiin  doiieiit  tonsorc ! 

-HOR.] 


ly  T  R.  MINIM  had  now  advanced  himself  to  the 
-^  ' -*-  zenith  of  critical  reputation;  when  he  was 
in  the  pit,  every  eye  in  the  boxes  was  fixed  upon  him  ; 
when  he  entered  his  coftec-house,  he  was  surrounded 
by  circles  of  candidates,  who  passed  their  novitiate  of 
literature  under  his  tuition  ;  his  opinion  was  asked  by 
all  who  had  no  opinion  of  their  own,  and  vet  loved 
to  debate  and  decide ;  and  no  composition  was  sup- 
posed to  pass  in  safety  to  posterity,  till  it  had  been 
secured  by  Minim's  approbation. 

Minim  professes  great  admiration   of  the  wisdom 
and  munificence  by  which  the  academieii  ot  the  C-on- 

tincat 


DICK  MIXIM  THE  CRITIC.  203 

tinent  were  raised,  and  often  wishes  for  some  standard 
of  taste,  for  some  tribunal,  to  which  merit  maj'  appeal 
from  caprice,  prejudice,  and  malignity.  He  has  formed 
a  plan  for  an  Academy  of  Criticism,  where  every  work 
of  imagination  may  be  read  before  it  is  printed,  and 
which  shall  authoritatively  direct  the  theatres  what 
pieces  to  receive  or  reject,  to  exclude  or  to  revive. 

Such  an  institution  would,  in  Dick's  opinion, 
spread  the  fame  of  English  literature  over  Europe, 
and  make  London  the  metropolis  of  elegance  and 
politeness,  the  place  to  which  the  learned  and  ingeni- 
ous of  all  countries  would  repair  for  instruction  and 
improvement,  and  where  nothing  would  any  longer 
be  applauded  or  endured  that  was  not  conformed  to 
the  nicest  rules,  and  finished  with  the  highest  elegance. 

Till  some  happy  conjunction  of  the  planets  shall 
dispose  our  princes  or  ministers  to  make  themselves 
immortal  by  such  an  academy.  Minim  contents  him- 
self to  preside  four  nights  in  a  week  in  a  critical  society 
selected  by  himself,  where  he  is  heard  without  contra- 
diction, and  whence  his  judgment  is  disseminated 
through  the  great  vulgar  and  the  small. 

When  he  is  placed  in  the  chair  of  criticism,  he 
declares  loudly  for  the  noble  simplicity  of  our  ances- 
tors, in  opposition  to  the  petty  refinements,  and  orna- 
mental 


204  DICK  MINIM  THE  CRiriC. 

mental  luxuriance.  Sometimes  he  is  sunk  in  despair, 
and  perceives  false  delicacy  daily  gaining  ground  ; 
and  sometimes  brightens  his  countenance  with  a 
gleam  of  hope,  and  predicts  the  revival  of  the  true 
sublime.  He  then  fulminates  his  loudest  censures 
against  the  monkish  barbarity  of  rhyme ;  wonders 
how  beings  that  pretend  to  reason  can  be  pleased 
with  one  line  always  ending  like  another ;  tells  how 
unjustly  and  unnaturally  sense  is  sacrificed  to  sound; 
how  often  the  best  thoughts  are  mangled  by  the 
necessity  of  confining  or  extending  them  to  the 
dimensions  of  a  couplet;  and  rejoices  that  genius 
has,  in  our  days,  shaken  off  the  shackles  which  had 
incumbered  it  so  long.  Yet  he  allowi  that  rhyme 
may  sometimes  be  borne,  if  the  l!nc:.  be  often  broken, 
and  the  pauses  judiciously  diversified. 

From  blank  verse  he  makes  an  easy  transition  to 
Milton,  whom  he  produces  as  an  example  of  the  slow 
advance  of  lasting  reputation.  Milton  is  the  only 
writer  in  whose  books  Minim  can  read  for  ever  with- 
out weariness.  What  cause  it  is  that  exempts  this 
pleasure  from  satiety  he  has  long  and  diligently  en- 
quired, and  believes  it  to  consist  in  the  perpetual 
variation  of  the  numbers,  by  which  the  car  is  gratified 
and  the  attention  awakened.  The  lines  that  are  com- 
monly 


DICK  MIXIM  THE  CRITIC.  205 

nionly  thought  rugged  and  uiinuisical,  lie  conceives 
to  have  been  written  to  temper  the  melodious  luxury 
of  the  rest,  or  to  express  things  by  a  proper  cadence : 
for  he  scarcely  finds  a  verse  that  has  not  this  favourite 
beauty  ;  he  declares  that  he  could  shiver  in  a  hot- 
house, when  he  reads  that 

'  tlie  ground 
'  Burns  frore,  and  cold  performs  th'  effect  uf  lire  ; ' 

and  that,  when  Milton  bewails  his  blindness,  the  verse 

'  So  thick  a  drop  serene  has  quenched  these  orbs ' 

has,  he  knows  not  how,  something  that  strikes  him 
with  an  obscure  sensation  like  that  which  he  fancies 
would  be  felt  from  the  sound  of  darkness. 

Minim  is  not  so  confident  of  his  rules  of  judgment 
as  not  very  eagerly  to  catch  new  light  from  the  name 
of  the  author.  He  is  commonly  so  prudent  as  to  spare 
those  whom  he  cannot  resist,  unless,  as  will  some- 
times happen,  he  finds  the  public  combined  against 
them.  But  a  fresh  pretender  to  fame  he  is  stronglv 
inclined  to  censure,  till  his  own  honour  requires  that 
he  commend  him.  Till  he  knows  the  success  of  a 
composition,  he  intrenches  himself  in  general  terms ; 

tliere 


2o6  DICK  MIMM  THE  CRITIC. 

there  are  some  new  thoughts  and  beautiful  passages ; 
but  there  is  likewise  much  which  he  would  have  ad- 
vised the  author  to  expunge.  He  has  several  favourite 
epithets,  of  which  he  has  never  settled  the  meaning, 
but  which  are  very  commodiously  applied  to  books 
which  he  has  not  read,  or  cannot  understand.  One 
is  manly,  another  is  dry,  another  slijf,  and  another 
fimsy ;  sometimes  he  discovers  delicacy  of  style,  and 
sometimes  meets  with  strange  expressions. 

He  is  never  so  great,  or  so  happy,  as  when  a  youth 
of  promising  parts  is  brought  to  receive  his  directions 
for  the  prosecution  of  his  studies.  He  then  puts  on  a. 
very  serious  air;  he  advises  his  pupil  to  read  none  but 
the  best  authors  ;  and,  when  he  finds  one  congenial 
to  his  own  mind,  to  study  liis  beauties,  but  avoid  his 
faults ;  and,  when  he  sits  down  to  write,  to  consider 
how  his  favourite  author  would  think  at  the  present 
time  on  the  present  occasion.  He  exhorts  him  to 
catch  those  moments  when  he  finds  his  thoughts  ex- 
panded and  his  genius  exalted;  but  to  take  care  lest 
imagination  hurr}'  him  bevond  the  bounds  of  nature. 
He  holds  diligence  the  mother  of  success :  yet  enjoins 
him,  with  great  earnestness,  not  to  read  more  than  he 
can  digest,  and  not  to  confuse  his  mind  by  pursuing 
studies  of  contrary  tendencies.      He  tells   him  that 

everv 


DICK  MIXIM  THE  CRITIC.  207 

everv  man  has  his  genius,  and  that  Cicero  could 
never  be  a  poet.  The  boy  retires  iUuniinated,  resolves 
to  follow  his  genius,  and  to  think  how  Milton  would 
have  thought :  and  Minim  feasts  upon  his  own  bene- 
ficence till  another  day  brings  another  pupil. 

[June  16,  1759.] 


ART- 


Idllr]  N     29  [Reynolds 

ART-  CONNOISSE  URS. 


[^Siihtilis  vetcnini  judex  et  callidus 

— HOR.] 


Sir, 
T  WAS  much  pleased  with  your  ridicule  of  those 
-*-  shallow  Critics,  whose  judgment,  thdugh  often 
right  as  far  as  it  goes,  yet  reaches  only  to  interior 
beauties,  and  who,  unable  to  comprehend  the  whole, 
judge  only  by  parts,  and  from  thence  determine  the 
merit  of  extensive  works.  But  there  is  another  kind 
of  Critic  still  worse,  who  judges  by  narrow  rules,  and 
those  too  often  false,  and  which,  though  they  should 
be  true,  and  founded  on  nature,  will  lead  him  but  a 
very  little  way  towards  the  just  estimation  of  the 
sublime  beauties  in  works  of  genius  ;  for  whatever 
part  of  an  art  can  be  executed  or  criticised  by  rules, 
tiiat  part  is  no  longer  the  work  or  genius,  which  im- 
plies 


JRT-CONKOISSEURS.  209 

plies  excellence  out  of  the  reach  of  rules.  For  niv  own 
part,  I  profess  myself  an  Idler,  and  love  to  give  my 
judgment,  such  as  it  is,  from  my  immediate  percep- 
tions, without  much  fatigue  of  thinking ;  and  I  am 
of  opinion,  that  if  a  man  has  not  those  perceptions 
right,  it  will  be  vain  for  him  to  endeavour  to  supply 
their  place  hy  rules,  which  may  enable  him  to  talk 
more  learnedly,  but  not  to  distinguish  more  acutely. 
Another  reason  which  has  lessened  my  affection  for 
the  study  of  criticism  is,  that  Critics,  so  far  as  I  have 
observed,  debar  themselves  from  receiving  any  plea- 
sure from  the  polite  arts,  at  the  same  time  that  they 
profess  to  love  and  admire  them  :  for  these  rules, 
being  always  uppermost,  give  them  such  a  propensity 
to  criticise,  that,  instead  of  giving  up  the  reins  of 
their  imagination  into  their  author's  hands,  their 
frigid  minds  are  employed  in  examining  whether  the 
performance  be  according  to  the  rules  of  art. 

To  those  who  are  resolved  to  be  Critics  in  spite  of 
nature,  and,  at  the  same  time,  have  no  great  disposi- 
tion to  much  reading  and  study,  I  would  recommend 
to  them  to  assume  the  character  of  Connoisseur, 
which  may  be  purchased  at  a  much  cheaper  rate  than 
that  of  a  Critic  in  poetry.  The  remembrance  of  a  few 
names  of  pamters,  with  their  general  characters,  with' 

IG 


210  ART-CONNOISSEURS. 

a  few  rules  of  the  Academy,  which  they  may  pick  up 
among  the  painters,  will  go  a  great  way  towards 
making  a  very  notable  Connoisseur. 

With  a  gentleman  of  this  cast,  I  visited  last  week 
the  Cartoons  at  Hampton-Court ;  he  was  just  returned 
from  Italy,  a  Connoisseur  of  course,  and  of  course  his 
mouth  full  of  nothing  but  the  grace  of  Ratfaelle,  the 
purity  of  Domenichino,  the  learning  of  Poussin,  the 
air  of  Guido,  the  greatness  of  taste  of  the  Caraches, 
and  the  sublimity  and  grand  contorno  of  Michael  An- 
gelo  ;  with  all  the  rest  of  the  cant  of  criticism,  which 
he  ernitted  with  that  volubility  which  generally  those 
orators  have  who  annex  no  idea  to  their  words. 

As  we  were  passing  through  the  rooms,  in  our  way 
to  the  gallery,  I  made  him  observe  a  whole  length  of 
Charles  the  First,  by  Vandyke,  as  a  perfect  representa- 
tion of  the  character  as  well  as  the  figure  of  the  man. 
He  agreed  it  was  very  fine,  but  it  wanted  spirit  and 
contrast,  and  had  not  the  flowing  line,  without  which 
a  figure  could  not  possibly  be  graceful.  When  we 
entered  the  Gallery,  I  thought  I  could  perceive  him 
recollecting  his  rules  by  which  he  was  to  criticise 
Ralfaelle.  I  shall  pass  over  his  observation  of  the 
boats  being  too  little,  and  other  criticisms  of  that 
kind,  till   we  arrived  at  St.  Paul  preaching,      '  This, 

'  (says 


ART-  CONNOISSEURS.  211 

'  (says  he)  is  esteemed  the  most  excellent  of  all  the 
'  Cartoons ;  what  nobleness,  what  dignity  there  is  in 
'  that  figure  of  St.  Paul !  and  yet  what  an  addition  to 
'  that  nobleness  could  Raffaelle  have  given,  had  the 
'  art  of  contrast  been  known  in  his  time  !  but,  above 
'  all,  the  flowing  line,  which  constitutes  grace  and 
'  beauty.  You  would  not  then  have  seen  an  upright 
'  figure  standing  equally  on  both  legs,  and  both  hands 
'  streiiched  forward   in  the  same  direction,  and   his 

*  drapery,  to  all  appearance,  without  the  least  art  of 
'  disposition.'  The  following  picture  is  the  Charge  to 
Peter.  '  Here  (says  he)  are  twelve  upright  figures ; 
'  what  a  pity  it  is  that  Raffaelle  was  not  acquainted 

*  with  the  pyramidal  principle !  He  would  then 
'  have  contrived  the  figures  in  the  middle  to  have 
'  been  on  higher  ground,  or  the  figures  at  the  ex- 
'  tremities  stooping  or  lying,  which  would  not  only 
'  have  formed  the  group  into  the  shape  of  a  pyramid, 
'  but  likewise  contrasted  the  standing  figures.  In- 
'  deed,'  added  he,  '  I  have  often  lamented  that  so 
'  great  a  genius  as  Raffaelle  had  not  lived  in  this 
'  enlightened  age,  since  the  art  has  been  reduced  to 
'  principles,  and  had  had  his  education  in  one  of  the 
'  modern  academies  ;  what  glorious  works  might  we 
'  then  have  expected  from  his  divine  pencil  1 ' 

I 


212  ART-CONNOISSEURS. 

I  sliall  trouble  j'ou  no  longer  with  my  friend's 
observations,  which,  I  suppose,  you  are  now  able  to 
continue  by  yourself.  It  is  curious  to  observe,  that, 
at  the  same  time  that  great  admiration  is  pretended 
for  a  name  of  fixed  reputation,  objections  are  raised 
against  those  very  qualities  by  which  that  great  name 
was  acquired. 

Those  Critics  are  continually  lamenting  that  Raf- 
faelle  had  not  the  colouring  and  harmony  of  Rubens, 
or  the  light  and  shadow  of  Rembrandt,  without  con- 
sidering how  much  the  gay  harmony  of  the  former,  and 
aflectation  of  the  latter,  would  take  from  the  dignity 
of  Raftaelle  ;  and  yet  Rubens  had  great  harmony, 
and  Rembrandt  understood  light  and  shadow  :  but 
what  may  be  an  excellence  in  a  lower  class  of  paint- 
ing, becomes  a  blemish  in  a  higher ;  as  the  quick, 
sprightly  turn  which  is  the  life  and  beauty  of  epi- 
grammatic compositions,  would  but  ill  suit  with  the 
majesty  of  heroic  poetry. 

To  conclude  :  I  would  not  be  thought  to  infer  from 
anything  that  has  been  said  that  rules  are  absolutely 
unnecessary  ;  but  to  censure  scrupulosity,  a  servile 
attention  to  minute  exactness,  which  is  sometimes 
inconsistent  with  higher  excellency,  and  is  lost  in  tlie 
blaze  of  expanded  genius. 

I 


^RT-COXXOISSEURS.  213 

1  do  not  know  whether  you  will  think  painting 
a  general  subject.  By  inserting  this  letter,  perhaps 
you  will  incur  the  censure  a  man  would  deserve, 
whose  business  being  to  entertain  a  whole  room, 
should  turn  his  back  to  the  company,  and  talk  to  a 
particular  person. 

I  am,  Sir,  &c. 

[Sept.  29,  1759.] 


CiT.  World]  N°  30  [Goldsmith 

THE  MAN  IN  BLACK. 

['0  dvdpuiros  evepyerbs  ve^vKios. 

— Antonin.] 

''  I  ""HOUGH  fond  of  many  acquaintances,  I  desire 
-*-  an  intimacy  only  with  a  few.  The  Man  in 
Black,  whom  I  have  often  mentioned,  is  one  whose 
friendship  I  could  wish  to  acquire,  because  he  pos- 
sesses my  esteem.  His  manners,  it  is  true,  are  tinc- 
tured with  come  strange  inconsistencies ;  and  he  may 
be  justly  termed  an  humorist  in  a  nation  of  humorists. 
Though  he  is  generous  even  to  profusion,  he  affects 
to  be  thought  a  prodigy  of  parsimony  and  prudence  ; 
though  his  conversation  be  replete  with  the  most 
sordid  and  selfish  maxims,  his  heart  is  dilated  with 
the  most  unbounded  love.  I  have  known  him  profess 
himself  a  man-hater,  while  his  cheek  was  glowing  with 
compassion ;  and,  while  his  looks  were  softened  into 

pity. 


THE  MAN  IX  BLACK.  215 

pitv,  I  have  heard  him  use  the  language  of  the  most 
unbounded  ill-nature.  Some  affect  humanity  and  ten- 
derness, others  boast  of  having  such  dispositions  from 
Nature;  but  he  is  the  only  man  I  ever  knew  who 
seemed  ashamed  of  his  natural  benevolence.  He  takes 
as  much  pains  to  hide  his  feelings,  as  any  hypocrite 
would  to  conceal  his  indifference  ;  but  on  every  un- 
guarded moment  the  mask  drops  off,  and  reveals  him 
to  the  most  superficial  observer. 

In  one  of  our  late  excursions  into  the  country, 
happening  to  discourse  upon  the  provision  that  was 
made  for  the  poor  in  England,  he  seemed  amazed  how 
anv  of  his  countrymen  could  be  so  foolishly  weak  as 
to  relieve  occasional  objects  of  charity,  when  the  laws 
had  made  such  ample  provision  for  their  support. 
'  In  every  parish-house,'  says  he,  '  the  poor  are  sup- 
'  plied  with  food,  clothes,  fire,  and  a  bed  to  lie  on ; 
'  they  want  no  more,  I  desire  no  more  myself ;  yet 
'  still  they  seem  discontented.  I'm  surprised  at  the 
'  inactivity  of  our  magistrates,  in  not  taking  up  such 
'  vagrants,  who  are  only  a  weight  upon  the  industri- 
'  ous ;  I'm  surprised  that  the  people  are  found  to 
'  relieve  them,  when  they  must  be  at  the  same  time 
'  sensible  that  it,  in  some  measure,  encourages  idle- 
•  ness,  extravagance,  and  imposture.    Were  I  to  advise 

'  any 


2i6  THE  MJN  IN  BLACK. 

'  any  man  for  whom  I  had  the  least  regard,  I  would 
•  caution  him  by  all  means  not  to  be  imposed  upon 
'  by  their  false  pretences :  let  me  assure  you,  Sir, 
'  they  are  impostors,  every  one  of  them  ;  and  rather 
'  merit  a  prison  than  relief.' 

He  was  proceeding  in  this  strain  earnestly,  to  dis- 
suade me  from  an  imprudence  of  which  I  am  seldom 
guilty,  when  an  old  man,  who  still  had  about  him 
the  remnants  of  tattered  finery,  implored  our  compas- 
sion. He  assured  us  that  he  was  no  common  beggar, 
but  forced  into  the  shameful  profession  to  support  a 
dying  wife  and  five  hungry  children.  Being  prepos- 
sessed against  such  falsehoods,  his  story  h-id  not  the 
least  influence  upon  me  ;  but  it  was  quite  otherwise 
with  the  Man  in  Black ;  I  could  see  it  visibly  operate 
upon  his  countenance,  and  effectually  interrupt  his 
harangue.  I  could  easily  perceive  that  his  heart 
burned  to  relieve  the  five  starving  children,  but  he 
seemed  ashamed  to  discover  his  weakness  to  me. 
While  he  thus-  hesitated  between  compassion  and 
pride,  I  pretended  to  look  another  way,  and  he  seized 
this  opportunity  of  giving  the  poor  petitioner  a  piece  of 
silver,  bidding  him  at  the  same  time,  in  order  that  I 
should  hear,  go  work  for  his  bread,  and  not  tease  passen- 
gers with  such  impertinent  falsehoods  for  the  future. 

Ad 


THE  MAN  IN  BLACK.  217 

As  he  had  fancied  himself  quite  unperceived,  he 
continued,  as  we  proceeded,  to  rail  against  beggars 
with  as  much  animosity  as  before ;  he  threw  in  so:r.c 
episodes  on  his  own  amazing  prudence  and  economy, 
with  his  profound  skill  in  discovering  impostors  ;  lie 
explained  the  manner  in  which  he  would  deal  with 
beggars,  were  he  a  magistrate,  hinted  at  enlarging 
some  of  the  prisons  for  their  leception,  and  told  two 
stories  of  ladies  that  were  robbed  by  beggarmen.  He 
was  beginning  a  third  to  the  same  purpose,  when  a 
sailor  with  a  wooden  leg  once  more  crossed  our  walks, 
desiring  our  pity,  and  blessing  our  limbs.  I  was  lor 
going  on  without  taking  anv  notice,  but  my  friend 
looking  wishfully  upon  the  poor  petitioner,  bid  me 
stop,  and  he  would  shew  me  with  how  much  ease  he 
could  at  any  time  detect  an  impostor. 

He  now,  therefore,  assumed  a  look  of  importance, 
and  in  an  angry  tone  began  to  examine  the  sailor,  de- 
manding in  what  engagement  he  was  thus  disabled 
and  rendered  unfit  for  ser\'ice.  The  sailor  replied  in 
a  tone  as  angrily  as  he,  that  he  had  been  an  otTicer  on 
board  a  private  ship  of  war,  and  that  he  had  lost  his 
leg  abroad,  in  defence  of  those  who  did  nothing  at 
home.  At  this  reply,  all  my  friend's  importance 
vanished  in  a  moment ;  he  had  not  a  single  question 

more 


2i8  THE  MAN  IN  BLACK. 

more  to  ask  ;  he  now  only  studied  wliat  method  he 
should  take  to  relieve  him  unobserved.  He  had,  how- 
ever, no  easy  part  to  act,  as  he  was  obliged  to  preserve 
the  appearance  of  ill-nature  before  me,  and  yet  relieve 
himself  by  relieving  the  sailor.  Casting,  therefore,  a 
furious  look  upon  some  bundles  of  chips  which  the 
fellow  carried  in  a  string  at  his  back,  my  triend  de- 
manded how  he  sold  his  matches;  but  not  waiting 
for  a  reply,  desired,  in  a  surly  tone,  to  have  a  shilling's 
worth.  The  sailor  seemed  at  first  surprised  at  liis  de- 
mand, but  soon  recollecting  himself,  and  presenting 
his  whole  bundle^'  Here,  master,'  says  he,  '  take  all 
'  my  cargo,  and  a  blessing  into  the  bargain.' 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  with  wha;  an  air  of 
triumph  my  friend  marched  off  with  his  new  pur- 
chase ;  he  assured  me  that  he  was  firmly  of  opin'on 
that  those  fellows  must  have  stolen  their  goods  who 
could  thus  afford  to  sell  them  for  half  value.  He 
.  informed  me  of  several  different  uses  to  which  those 
chips  might  be  applied  ;  he  expatiated  largely  upon 
the  savings  that  would  result  from  lighting  candles 
with  a  match  instead  of  thrusting  them  mto  the  fire. 
He  averred  that  he  would  as  soon  have  parted  with  a 
tooth  as  his  money  to  those  vagabonds,  unless  for 
some  valuable  consideration.     I  cannot  tell  how  long 

this 


THE  ^L■1^'  I\  BLACK.  219 

this  paneg5Tic  upon  frugality  and  matches  might  have 
continued,  had  not  his  attention  been  called  off  by 
another  object  more  distressful  than  either  of  the 
former.  A  woman  in  rags,  with  one  child  in  her 
arms,  and  another  on  her  back,  was  attempting  to 
sing  ballads,  but  with  such  a  mournful  voice  that  it 
was  difficult  to  determine  whether  she  was  singing  or 
crj'ing.  A  wretch  who  in  the  deepest  distress  still 
aimed  at  good-humour,  was  an  object  my  friend  was 
by  no  means  capable  of  withstand'ng;  his  vivacity 
and  his  discourse  were  instantly  interrupted  ;  upon 
tliis  occasion  his  very  dissimulation  had  forsaken  him. 
Even  in  my  presence,  he  immediatelv  applied  his 
hands  to  his  pockets,  in  order  to  relieve  her ;  but 
guess  his  confusion,  when  he  found  he  had  already 
given  away  all  the  money  he  carried  about  Iiim  to 
former  objects.  The  misery  painted  in  the  woman's 
visage  was  not  half  so  strongly  expressed  as  the  agony 
in  his.  He  continued  to  search  for  some  time,  but 
to  no  purpose,  till,  at  length,  recollecting  himself, 
with  a  face  of  ineffable  goo^-nature,  as  he  had  no 
money,  he  put  into  her  hands  his  shilling's  worth  of 
matches. 

[1760.] 

BEAU 


CiT.  World]  N     ^l  [Goldsmith 

BEAU   TIBBS. 


[Quid  .    .   .  ferct  hic  promissor  ? 
— HoR. 


'T"''HOUGH  naturally  pensive,  yet  I  am  fond  of 
-*-  gay  company,  and  take  every  opportunity  of 
thus  dismissing  the  mind  from  duty.  From  this 
motive  I  am  often  found  in  the  centre  of  a  crowd ; 
and  wherever  pleasure  is  to  be  sold,  am  always  a 
purcliaser.  In  those  places,  without  being  remarked 
by  any,  I  join  in  whatever  goes  forward ;  work  rrr 
passions  into  a  similitude  of  frivolous  earnest::css, 
shout  as  they  shout,  and  condemn  as  they  happen  ta 
disapprove.  A  mind  thus  sunk  for  awhile  below  its 
natural  standard,  is  qualified  for  stronger  flights,  as 
those  first  retire  who  would  spring  forward  with 
greater  vigour. 

Attracted  by  the  serenity  of  the  evening,  a  friend 

and 


BEAU  TIBBS.  221 

and  [  lately  went  to  gaze  upon  the  companv  in  one  of 
the  public  walks  near  the  city.  Here  we  sauntered 
together  for  some  time,  either  praising  the  beauty  of 
such  as  were  handsome,  or  the  dresses  of  such  as  had 
nothing  else  to  recommend  them.  We  had  gone  thus 
deliberately  forward  for  some  time,  when  my  friend, 
stopping  on  a  sudden,  caught  me  by  the  elbow, 
and  led  me  out  of  the  public  walk.  I  could  perceive 
by  the  quickness  of  his  pace,  and  by  his  frequently 
looking  behind,  that  he  was  attempting  to  avoid 
somebody  who  followed  ;  we  now  turned  to  the  right, 
then  to  the  left ;  as  we  went  forward,  he  still  went 
faster,  but  in  vain  ;  the  person  whom  he  attempted  to- 
escape,  hunted  us  through  every  doubling,  and  gained 
upon  us  each  moment ;  so  that  at  last  we  fairly  stood 
still,  resolving  to  face  what  we  could  not  avoid. 

Our  pursuer  soon  came  up,  and  joined  us  with  all 
the  familiarity  of  an  old  acquaintance.  '  My  dear 
'  Charles,'  cries  he,  shaking  my  friend's  hand,  'where 
'  have  you  been  hiding  this  half  a  century  ?  Posi- 
*  tively  I  had  fancied  you  were  gone  down  to  culti- 
'  vate  matrimony  and  your  estate  in  the  country.' 
During  the  reply  I  had  an  opportunity  of  surveying 
the  appearance  ot  our  new  companion.  His  hat  was 
pinched  up  with  peculiar  smartness  ;  his  looks  were 

pale, 


222  BEAU  TIBBS. 

pale,  thin,  and  sharp  ;  round  liis  neck  he  wore  a 
broad  black  ribbon,  and  in  his  bosom  a  buckle  stuJded 
with  glass ;  his  coat  was  trimmed  with  tarnished 
twist  ;  he  wore  by  his  side  a  sword  with  a  black 
hilt,  and  his  stocldnjjs  of  silk,  though  newly  washed, 
were  grown  yellow  by  long  service.  I  was  so  much 
engaged  with  the  peculiarity  of  his  dress,  that  I 
attended  only  to  the  latter  part  of  my  friend's  reply, 
in  which  he  complimented  Mr.  Tibbs  on  the  taste 
of  his  clothes,  and  the  bloom  in  his  countenance. 
'.  Psha,  psha,  Charles  !  '  cried  the  figure,  '  no  more 
'  of  that  if  you  love  me  ;  you  know  I  hate  flatter)',  on 
'  my  soul  I  do  ;  and  yet,  to  be  sure,  an  intimacy  with 
'  the  great  will  improve  one's  appearance,  and  a  course 
'of  venison  will  fatten;  and  yet,  faith,  I  despise  the 
'  great  as  much  as  you  do  ;  but  there  are  a  great  many 
'  honest  fellows  among  them  ;  and  we  must  not  quarrel 
'  with  one  half  because  the  other  wants  breeding.  If 
'  they  were  all  such  as  my  Lord  Mudler,  one  of  the 
'  most  good-natured  creatures  that  ever  squeezed  a 
'  lemon,  I  should  myself  be  among  the  number  of 
'  their  admirers.  I  was  yesterday  to  dine  at  the 
'  Duchess  of  Piccadilly's.  My  lord  was  there. 
'"Ned,"  says  he  to  me,  "Ned,"  says  he,  "I'll 
*  "  hold  gold  to  silver  I  can  tell  where  you  were 

'  "  poaching 


i 


BEAU  TIBBS.  225 

"poaching  last  night."— "  Poaching,  my  lord?'* 
says  I;  "faith,  you  have  missed  already;  for  I 
"  stayed  at  home,  and  let  the  girls  poach  for  me. 
"That's  my  way;  I  take  a  fine  woman  as  some 
"  animals  do  their  prev ;  stand  still,  and  swoop, 
"  they  fall  into  my  mouth."  ' 

'  Ah,  Tibbs,  thou  art  an  happy  fellow,'  cried  my 
companion,  with  looks  of  infinite  pits  ;  '  I  hope 
'  your  fortune  is  as  much  improved  as  \"our  under- 
'  standing  in  such  company?  ' — '  Improved  I '  replied 
the  other;  'you  shall  know — but  let  it  go  no  fur- 
'  ther, — a  great  secret — five  hundred  a-year  to  begin 
'  with. — My  lord's  word  of  honour  for  it — His  lord- 
'  ship  took  me  down  in  his  own  chariot  yesterday, 
'  and  we  had  a  tete-a-tete  dinner  in  the  country ; 
'  where  we  talked  of  nothing  else.' — '  I  fancy  you 
'  forgot.  Sir,'  cried  I ;  '  you  told  us  but  this  moment 
'  of  your  dining  yesterday  in  town  I '  '  Did  I  say 
'  so  ?  '  replied  he,  coolly.  '  To  be  sure  if  I  said  so  it 
'  was  so. — Dined  in  town :  egad,  now  I  do  remember, 
'  I  did  dine  in  town  ;  but  I  dined  in  the  countrj'  too; 
'  for  you  must  know,  my  boys,  I  eat  two  dinners. 
'  By  the  bye,  I  am  grown  as  nice  as  the  devil  in  my 
'  eating.  I'll  tell  you  a  pleasant  affair  about  that : 
'  We  were  a  select  pany  of  us  to  dine  at  I^dv  Gro- 

'  gram's. 


224  BEAU  TIDBS. 

'  gram's,  an  affected  piece,  but  let  it  go  no  further; 
'a  secret.      "Well,"  says  I,   "I'll  hold  a  thousand 

'guineas,  and  say  done  first,  that "     But,  dear 

'  Charles,  you  are  an  honest  creature,  lend  me  half-a- 
'  crown  for  a  minute  or  two,  or  so,  just  till —  But, 
'  harkee,  ask  me  for  it  the  next  time  we  meet,  or  it 
'  may  be  twenty  to  one  but  I  forget  to  pay  you.' 

When  he  left  us,  our  conversation  naturally  turned 
upon  so  extraordinary  a  character.  '  His  very  dress,* 
cries  my  friend,  '  is  not  less  extraordinary  than  his 
'  conduct.  If  you  meet  him  this  day,  you  find  him  in 
'  rags  ;  if  the  next,  in  embroidery.  With  those  per- 
'  sons  of  distinction,  of  whom  he  talks  so  familiarly, 
'  he  has  scarce  a  coflee-house  acquaintance.  How- 
'  ever,  both  for  the  interests  of  society,  and  perhaps; 
'  for  his  own,  Heaven  has  made  him  poor  ;  and  while 
'  all  the  world  perceives  his  wants,  he  fancies  them 
'concealed  from  every  eye.  An  agreeable  companion, 
'  because  he  understands  flattery  ;  and  all  must  be 
'  pleased    with    the   first    part   of    his   conversation, 

*  though  all  are  sure  of  its  ending  with  a  demand  on 

*  their  purse.      While  his    youth   countenances  the 

*  levity  of  his  conduct,  he  may  thus  earn  a  precarious 

*  subsistence ;  but  when  age  comes  on,  the  gravity 

*  of  which  is  incompatible  with  buffoonery,  then  will 

^  he 


BEAU  TIBDS.  227 

•  he  find  himself  forsaken  by  all ;  condemned,  in 
'  the  decline  of  life,  to  hang  upon  some  rich  family 
'  whom  he  once  despised,  there  to  undergo  all  the 
'  ingenuity  of  studied  contempt,  to  be  employed  only 
'  as  a  spy  upon  the  servants,  or  a  bugbear  to  fright 
'  children  into  duty.' 

[1760.] 

17 


BEAU 


CiT.  World]  N"  32  [Goldsmith 

BEAU  TIBBS  AT  HOME. 


[         Hie  vivinius  ainbiliosa 

Paiipcrlatc  omnes.  — Ju^-] 


THERE  are  some  acquaintances  whom  it  is 
no  easy  matter  to  shake  ofF.  My  little  beau 
yesterday  overtook  me  again  in  one  of  the  public 
walks,  and,  slapping  me  on  the  shoulder,  saluted  me 
with  an  air  of  the  most  perfect  familiarity.  His  dress 
was  the  same  as  usual,  except  that  he  had  more 
powder  in  his  hair  ;  wore  a  dirtier  shirt,  and  had  on  a 
pair  of  temple  spectacles,  and  his  hat  under  his  arm. 

As  I  knew  him  to  be  an  harmless  amusing  little 
thing,  I  could  not  return  his  smiles  with  any  degree 
of  severity ;  so  we  walked  forward  on  terms  of  the 
utmost  intimacy,  and  in  a  few  minutes  discussed  all 
the  usual  topics  preliminary  to  particular  conversa- 
tion. 

The 


BEAU  TTBDS  AT  HOME.  227 

The  oddities  that  marked  his  character,  however, 
soon  began  to  appear ;  he  bowed  to  several  well- 
dressed  persons,  who,  by  their  manner  of  returning 
the  compliment,  appeared  perfect  strangers.  At  in- 
tervals he  drew  out  a  pocket-book,  seeming  to  take 
memorandums  before  all  the  company,  with  much 
importance  and  assiduity.  In  this  manner  he  led  me 
through  the  length  of  the  whole  Mall,  fretting  at  his 
absurdities,  and  fancying  myself  laughed  at  as  well  as 
he  by  every  spectator. 

When  we  were  got  to  the  end  of  our  procession — 
'  Hang  me ! '  cries  he,  with  an  air  of  vivacity,  '  I 
'  never  saw  the  Park  so  thin  in  my  life  before  ;  there's 
'  no  company  at  all  to-day.  Not  a  single  face  to  be 
'seen.' — 'No  company!'  interrupted  I,  peevishly; 
'  no  company  where  there  is  such  a  crowd?  why, 
'  man,  there  is  too  much.  What  are  the  thousands 
'that  have  been  laughing  at  us  but  company?' — 
'  Lord,  my  dear,'  returned  he,  with  the  utmost  good 
humour,  '  j'ou  seem  immensely  chagrined  ;  but,  hang 
'  me,  when  the  world  laughs  at  me,  I  laugh  at  all 
'  the  world,  and  so  we  are  even.  My  Lord  Trip, 
'  Bill  Squash,  the  Creolian,  and  I,  sometimes  make 
'  a  party  at  being  ridiculous  ;  and  so  we  say  and  do  a 
'  thousand  things  for  the  joke  sake.     But  I  see  you 

'  are 


228  BEAU  TIBBS  AT  HOME. 

'  are  grave,  and  if  j'ou  are  for  a  fine  grave  sentimental 
'  companion,  you  shall  dine  with  my  wile  to-day ; 
'  I  must  insist  on't ;  I'll  introduce  you  to  Mrs.  Tibbs, 
*a  lady  of  as  elegant  qualifications  as  any  in  nature  ; 
'  she  was  bred,  but  that's  between  ourselves,  under 
'  the  inspection  of  the  Countess  of  Shoreditch.  A 
'  charming  body  of  voice  !  But  no  more  of  that,  she 
'  shall  give  us  a  song.  You  shall  see  my  little  girl 
'  too,  Carolina  Wilhelma  Amelia  Tibbs,  a  sweet 
'  pretty  creature ;  I  design  her  for  my  Lord  Druni- 
'  stick's  eldest  son  ;  but  that's  in  friendship,  let  it  go 
'  no  further ;  she's  but  six  years  o'.d,  and  yet  she 
'  walks  a  minuet,  and  plays  on  the  guitar  immensely 
'  already.  I  intend  she  shall  be  as  perfect  as  possible 
'  in  every  accomplishment.  In  the  first  place  I'll 
*  make  her  a  scholar ;  I'll  teach  her  Greek  myself, 
'  and  I  intend  to  learn  that  language  purposely  to 
'  instruct  her ;  but  let  that  be  a  secret.' 

Thus  saying,  without  waiting  for  a  reply,  he  took 
me  by  the  arm  and  hauled  me  along.  We  passed 
through  many  dark  alleys  and  winding  ways ;  for, 
from  some  motives  to  me  unknown,  he  seemed  to 
have  a  particular  aversion  to  every  frequented  street ; 
at  last,  however,  we  got  to  the  door  of  a  dismal-look- 
ing house  in  the  outlets  of  the  town,  where  he  in- 
formed 


BEAU  TIRBS  AT  HOME.  229 

formed  me  he  chose  to  reside  for  the  benefit  of  the 
air. 

We  entered  the  lower  door,  which  seemed  ever  to 
lie  most  hospitably  open :  and  I  began  to  ascend  an 
old  and  creaking  staircase,  when,  as  he  mounted  to 
shew  me  the  way,  he  demanded,  whether  I  delighted 
in  prospects ;  to  which  answering  in  the  affirmative, 
— '  Then,'  says  he,  '  I  shall  show  you  one  of  the 
'  most  charming  out  of  my  windows ;  we  shall  see 
'the  ships  sailing,  and  the  whole  country  for  twenty 
'miles  round,  tip  top,  quite  high.  My  Lord  Swamp 
'  would  give  ten  thousand  guineas  for  such  a  one; 
'  but,  as  I  sometimes  pleasantly  tell  him,  I  always  love 
'  to  keep  my  prospects  at  home,  that  my  friends  may 
'  come  to  see  me  the  oftener.' 

By  this  time  we  were  arrived  as  high  as  the  stairs 
would  permit  us  to  ascend,  till  we  came  to  what  he 
was  facetiously  pleased  to  call  the  first  floor  down  the 
chimney ;  and  knocking  at  the  door,  a  voice,  with 
a  Scotch  accent,  from  within,  demanded — '  Wha's 
'  there?'  My  conductor  answered,  that  it  was  him. 
But  this  not  satisfying  the  querist,  the  voice  again 
repeated  the  demand  :  to  which  he  answered  louder 
than  before,  and  now  the  door  was  opened  by  an  old 
maid  servant  with  cautious  reluctance. 

When 


230  BEAU  TIBBS  AT  HOME. 

When  we  were  got  in,  he  welcomed  me  to  his 
house  with  great  ceremony,  and  turning  to  the  old 
woman,  asked  where  her  lady  was?  '  Good  troth,'  re- 
plied she  in  the  northern  dialect,  '  she's  washing  your 
*  twa  shirts  at  the  next  door,  because  they  have  taken 
'  an  oath  against  lending  out  the  tub  any  longer.' — 
'  My  two  shirts ! '  cries  he  in  a  tone  that  faltered 
with  confusion,  '  what  does  the  idiot  mean  !  ' — '  I  ken 
'  what  I  mean  well  enough,'  replied  the  other;  '  she's 
'  washing  your  twa  shirts  at  the  next  door,  because 

' '     '  Fire  and  fury  !   no  more  of  thy  stupid  ex- 

'  planations,'  cried  he.  '  Go  and  inform  her  we  have 
'  got  company.  Were  that  Scotch  hag,'  continued 
he,  turning  to  me,  '  to  be  for  ever  in  the  family,  she 
'  would  never  learn  politeness,  nor  forget  that  absurd 
'  poisonous  accent  of  hers,  or  testify  the  smallest 
'  specimen  of  breeding  or  high  life;  and  yet  it  is  very 
'  surprising  too,  as  I  had  her  from  a  parliament  man, 
'  a  friend  of  mine,  from  the  Highlands,  one  of  the 
'  politest  men  in  the  world ;  but  that's  a  secret.' 

We  waited  some  time  for  Mrs.  Tibbs'  arrival,  dur- 
ing which  interval  I  had  a  full  opportunity  of  sur- 
veying the  chamber  and  all  its  furniture ;  which 
consisted  of  four  chairs  with  old  wrought  bottoms, 
that  he  assured  me   were  his  wife's  embroidery  ;    a 

square 


nnAU  TIBBS  AT  HOME.  251 

square  table  that  had  been  once  japanned,  a  cradle  in 
one  corner,  a  lumbering  cabinet  in  the  other ;  a 
broken  shepherdess,  and  a  mandarine  without  a  head, 
were  stuck  over  the  chimney ;  and  round  the  walls 
several  paltry,  unframed  pictures,  which,  he  observed, 
were  all  of  his  own  drawing — '  What  do  you  think, 
'  Sir,  of  that  head  in  the  corner,  done  in  the  manner 
'  of  Grisoni  ?  There's  the  true  keeping  in  it ;  it's  my 
'  own  face  :  and  though  there  happens  to  be  no  like- 
'  ness,  a  countess  offered  me  an  hundred  for  its 
'  fellow  :  I  refused  her ;  for,  hang  it,  that  would  be 
'  mechanical,  you  know.' 

The  wife,  at  last,  made  her  appearance,  at  once  a 
slattern  and  a  coquette;  much  emaciated,  but  still 
carrj'ing  the  remains  of  beauty.  She  made  twenty 
apologies  for  being  seen  in  such  odious  dishabille,  but 
hoped  to  be  excused,  as  she  had  stayed  out  all  night  at 
Vauxhall  Gardens  with  the  countess,  who  was  exces- 
sively fond  of  the  horns.—'  And  indeed,  my  dear,' 
added  she,  turning  to  her  husband,  '  his  lordship  drank 
'  your  health  in  a  bumper.' — '  Poor  Jack,'  cries  he,  '  a 
'  dear  good-natured  creature,  I  know  he  loves  me  ;  but 
'  I  hope,  my  dear,  you  have  given  orders  for  dinner  ? 
'  you  need  make  no  great  preparations  neither,  there 
'  are  but  three  of  us  ;  something  elegant,  and  little 

'  will 


252  BEAU  TIBBS  AT  HOME. 

'  will  do  ;  a  turbot,  an  ortolan,  or  a '    '  Or  what 

'  do  you  think,  my  dear,'  interrupts  the  wife,  'of  a 
'  nice  pretty  bit  of  ox-cheek,  piping  hot,  and  dressed 
'  with  a  little  of  my  own  sauce?  ' — '  The  very  thing,' 
replies  he;  '  it  will  eat  best  with  some  smart  bottled 
'  beer ;  but  be  sure  to  let's  have  the  sauce  his  grace 
'  was  so  fond  of.  I  hate  your  immense  loads  of 
'  meat;  that  is  country  all  over;  extreme  disgusting 
'  to  those  who  are  in  the  least  acquainted  with  high 
'  life.' 

By  this  time  my  curiosity  began  to  abate,  and  my 
appetite  to  increase  ;  the  company  of  fools  may  at  first 
make  us  smile,  but  at  last  never  fails  of  rendering 
us  melancholy.  I  therefore  pretended  to  recollect  a 
prior  engagement,  and  after  having  shewn  my  respect 
to  the  house,  by  giving  the  old  servant  a  piece  of 
money  at  the  door,  I  took  my  leave :  Mr.  Tibbs 
assuring  me  that  dinner,  if  I  stayed,  would  be  ready 
at  least  in  less  than  two  hours. 

[1760.] 


BEAU 


CiT.  World]  N"  ^3  [Goldsmith 

BEAU  TIBBS  AT  VAUXHALL. 


[     Nunc  ct  campus,  et  area, 

Lenesque  sub  nocteni  stisurri 
Coinposita  rcpetantur  hora. 

— HOR.] 


THE  people  of  London  are  as  fond  of  walking  as 
our  friends  at  Pekin  of  riding  ;  one  of  the 
principal  entertainments  of  the  citizens  here  in  sum- 
mer is  to  repair  about  nightfall  to  a  garden  not  far 
from  town,  where  they  walk  about,  shew  their  best 
clothes  and  best  faces,  and  listen  to  a  concert  provided 
for  the  occasion. 

I  accepted  an  invitation,  a  few  evenings  ago,  from 
my  old  friend,  the  Man  in  Black,  to  be  one  of  a  party 
that  was  to  sup  there ;  and  at  the  appointed  hour 
waited  upon  him  at  his  lodgings.  There  I  found  the 
company  assembled,  and  expecting  my  arrival.     Our 

party 


254         BEAU  TILLS. AT  VAUXIIALL. 

party  consisted  of  my  friend  in  superlative  finery,  his 
stockings  rolled,  a  black  velvet  waistcoat  which  was 
formerly  new,  and  his  grey  wig  combed  down  in 
imitation  of  hair  ;  a  pawn-broker's  widow,  of  whom, 
by  the  bye,  my  friend  was  a  professed  admirer,  dressed 
out  in  green  damask,  with  three  gold  rings  on  every 
finger ;  Mr.  Tibbs,  the  second-rate  beau  I  have  for- 
merly described,  together  with  his  lady,  in  flimsy 
silk,  dirty  gauze  instead  of  linen,  and  a  hat  as  big 
as  an  umbrella. 

Our  first  difficulty  was  in  settling  how  we  should 
set  out.  Mrs.  Tibbs  had  a  natural  aversion  to  the 
water  ;  and  the  widow,  being  a  little  in  flesh,  as 
warmly  protested  against  walking  ;  a  coach  was  there- 
fore agreed  upon ;  which  being  too  small  to  carry 
five,  Mr.  Tibbs  consented  to  sit  in  his  wife's  lap. 

In  this  manner,  therefore,  we  set  forward,  being 
entertained  by  the  way  with  the  bodings  of  Mr.  Tibbs, 
who  assured  us  he  did  not  expect  to  see  a  single 
creature  for  the  evening  above  the  degree  of  a  cheese- 
monger; that  this  was  the  last  night  of  the  gardens, 
and  that,  consequently,  we  should  be  pestered  with  the 
nobility  and  gentry  from  Thames  Street  and  Crooked 
Lane  ;  with  several  other  prophetic  ejaculations,  prob- 
ably inspired  bv  the  uneasiness  of  his  situation. 

The 


BEAU  TIBBS  AT  VAUXHALL.  235 

The  illuminations  began  before  we  arrived  ;  and  I 
must  confess,  that,  upon  entering  the  gardens,  I 
found  every  sense  overpaid  with  more  than  expected 
pleasure  :  the  lights  everywhere  glimmering  through 
the  scarcely  moving  trees  ;  the  full-bodied  concert 
bursting  on  the  stillness  of  the  night,  the  natural 
concert  of  the  birds,  in  the  more  retired  part  of  the 
grove,  vying  with  that  which  was  formed  by  art ; 
the  company  gaily  dressed,  looking  satisfaction,  and 
the  tables  spread  with  various  delicacies  ;  all  conspired 
to  fill  my  imagination  with  the  visionary  happiness  of 
the  Arabian  law-giver,  and  lifted  me  into  an  ecstasy  of 
admiration.  '  Head  of  Confucius,'  cried  I  to  ray 
friend,  '  this  is  fine !  this  unites  rural  beauty  with 
'  courtly  magnificence ;  if  we  except  the  virgins  of 
•  immortality  that  hang  on  every  tree,  and  may  be 
'  plucked  at  every  desire,  I  do  not  see  how  this  falls 
'  short  of  Mahomet's  Paradise  ! '  —  'As  lor  virgins,' 
cries  my  friend,  '  it  is  true,  they  are  a  fruit  that  don'r 
'  much  abound  in  our  gardens  here  ;  but  if  ladies,  as 
'  plenty  as  apples  in  autumn,  and  as  complying  as  any 
'  hottri  of  thtm.  all,  can  content  you,  I  fancy  we  have 
'  no  need  to  go  to  heaven  for  paradise.' 

I  was  going  to  second  his  remarks,  when  we  were 
called  to  a  consultation  by  Mr.  Tibbs  and  the  rest  of 

tho 


236  BEAU  TIDES  AT  VAUXHALL. 

the  company,  to  know  in  what  manner  we  were  to 
lay  out  the  evening  to  the  greatest  advantage.  Mrs. 
Tibbs  was  for  keeping  the  genteel  walk  of  the  garden, 
where,  she  observed,  there  was  always  the  very  best 
company  ;  the  widow,  on  the  contrary,  who  came 
but  once  a  season,  was  for  securing  a  good  standing- 
place  to  see  the  water-works,  which,  she  assured  us, 
would  begin  in  less  than  an  hour  at  farthest :  a  dispute 
therefore  began  ;  and,  as  it  was  managed  between  two 
of  very  opposite  characters,  it  threatened  to  grow 
more  bitter  at  every  reply.  Mrs.  Tibbs  wondered 
how  people  could  pretend  to  know  the  polite  world, 
who  had  received  all  their  rudiments  of  breeding 
behind  a  counter;  to  which  the  other  replied,  that, 
though  some  pfiople  sat  behind  counters,  yet  they 
could  sit  at  the  head  of  their  own  tables  too,  and 
carve  three  good  dishes  of  hot  meat  whenever  they 
thought  proper,  which  was  more  than  some  people 
could  say  for  themselves,  that  hardly  knew  a  rabbit 
and  onions  from  a  green  goose  and  gooseberries. 

It  is  hard  to  say  where  this  might  have  ended,  had 
not  the  husband,  who  probably  knew  the  impetu- 
osity of  his  wife's  disposition,  proposed  to  end  the 
dispute  by  adjourning  to  a  box,  and  try  if  there  was 
anything  to  be  had  for  supper  that  was  supportable. 

To 


BE.IU  TIDES  AT  VAUXTULL.  257 

To  this  we  all  consented  ;  but  here  a  new  distress 
arose,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tibbs  would  sit  in  none  but  a 
genteel  box,  a  box  where  they  might  see  and  be  seen; 
one,  as  they  expressed  it,  in  the  very  focus  of  public 
view  :  but  such  a  box  was  not  easy  to  be  obtained, 
for  though  we  were  perfectly  convinced  of  our  own 
gentility,  and  the  gentility  of  our  appearance,  yet  we 
found  it  a  difficult  matter  to  persuade  the  keepers  of 
the  boxes  to  be  of  our  opinion  ;  they  chose  to  reserve 
genteel  boxes  for  what  they  judged  more  genteel 
company. 

At  last,  however,  we  were  fixed,  though  somewhat 
obscurely,  and  supplied  with  the  usual  entertainment 
of  the  place.  The  widow  found  the  supper  excel- 
lent, but  Mrs.  Tibbs  thought  everything  detestable. 
'  Come,  come,  my  dear,'  cries  the  husband,  by  way 
of  consolation,  '  to  be  sure  we  can't  find  such  dressing 
'  here  as  we  have  at  Lord  Crump's,  or  Lady  Crimp's; 
'  but  for  Vauxhall  dressing,  it  is  pretty  good  ;  it  is 
'  not  their  victuals,  indeed,  I  find  fault  with,  but  their 
'  wine;  their  wine,'  cries  he,  drinking  off  a  glass, 
'  indeed,  is  most  abominable.' 

By  this  last  contradiction,  the  widow  was  fairly 
conquered  in  point  of  politeness.  She  perceived  now 
that  she  had  no  pretensions  in  the  world  to  taste,  her 

very 


2  3S  BEAU  ilDUS  AT  rAU.'J'lALL. 

very  senses  were  vulgar,  since  she  had  praised  detest- 
able custard,  and  smacked  at  wretched  wine  ;  she  was 
therefore  content  to  yield  the  victory,  and  for  t!;e 
rest  of  the  night  to  listen  and  improve.  It  is  true, 
she  would  now  and  then  forget  herself,  and  confess 
she  was  pleased  ;  but  they  soon  brought  her  back 
again  to  miserable  refinement.  She  once  praised  the 
painting  of  the  box  in  which  we  were  sitting ;  but 
was  soon  convinced  that  such  paltry  pieces  ought 
rather  to  excite  horror  than  satisfaction  ;  she  ventured 
again  to  commend  one  of  the  singers ;  but  Mrs. 
Tibbs  soon  let  her  know,  in  the  style  of  a  connoisseur, 
that  the  singer  in  question  had  neither  ear,  voice, 
nor  judgment. 

Mr.  Tibbs,  now  willing  to  prove  that  his  wife's 
pretensions  to  music  were  just,  entreated  her  to 
favour  the  company  with  a  song ;  but  to  this  she 
gave  a  positive  denial — '  For  you  know  very  well,  my 
'  dear,'  says  she,  '  that  I  am  not  in  voice  to-day ; 
'  and  when  one's  voice  is  not  equal  to  one's  judgment, 
'  what  signifies  singing?  Besides,  as  there  is  no 
'  accompaniment,  it  would  be  but  spoiling  music' 
All  these  excuses,  however,  were  over-ruled  by  the 
rest  of  the  company ;  who,  though  one  would  think 
they  already  had  music  enough,  joined  in  the  en- 
treaty 


nrAU  Tinns  at  fauxtull.       259 

treaty ;  but  particularly  the  widow,  now  willing  to 
convince  the  company  of  her  breeding,  pressed  so 
warmly,  that  she  seemed  determined  to  take  no  refusal. 
At  last,  then,  the  lady  complied ;  and,  after  humming 
for  some  minutes,  began  with  such  a  voice,  and  such 
affectation,  as  I  could  perceive  gave  but  little  satisfac- 
tion to  any  except  her  husband.  He  sat  with  rapture 
in  his  eye,  and  beat  time  with  his  hand  on  the  table. 
You  must  observe,  my  friend,  that  it  is  the  custom 
of  this  country,  when  a  lady  or  gentleman  happens  to 
sing,  for  the  company  to  sit  as  mute  and  motionless 
as  statues.  Every  feature,  every  limb,  must  seem  to 
correspond  in  fixed  attention ;  and  w^hile  the  song 
continues,  they  are  to  remain  in  a  state  of  universal 
petrefaction.  In  this  mortifying  situation,  we  had 
continued  for  some  time,  listening  to  the  song,  and 
looking  with  tranquillity,  when  the  master  of  the  box 
came  to  inform  us,  that  the  water-works  were  going 
to  begin.  At  this  information,  I  could  instantly  per- 
ceive the  widow  bounce  from  her  seat ;  but  correcting 
herself,  she  sat  down  again,  repressed  by  motives  of 
good-breeding.  Mrs.  Tibbs,  who  had  seen  the  water- 
works a  hundred  times,  resolving  not  to  be  inter- 
rupted, continued  her  song  without  any  share  of 
mercy,  nor  had  the  smallest  pity  upon  our  impatience. 

The 


240  BEAU  TIBBS  AT  VAUXHALL. 

The  widow's  face,  I  own,  gave  me  high  entertain- 
ment ;  in  it  I  could  plainly  read  the  struggle  she  felt 
between  good-breeding  and  curiosity ;  she  talked  of 
the  water-works  the  whole  evening  before,  and 
seemed  to  have  come  merely  in  order  to  see  them  ; 
but  then  she  could  not  bounce  out  in  the  very  middle 
of  a  song,  for  that  would  be  forfeiting  all  pretensions  to 
liigh  life,  or  high-lived  company,  ever  after :  Mrs.  Tibbs 
therefore  kept  on  singing,  and  we  contfnued  to  listen, 
till  at  last,  when  the  song  was  just  concluded,  the  waiter 
came  to  inform  us  that  the  water-works  were  over  1 

'  The  water-works  over  1 '  cried  the  widow  ;  '  the 
'  water-works  over  already  1  that's  impossible  ;  they 
'  can't  he  over  so  soon  !  ' — '  It  is  not  my  business,' 
replied  the  fellow,  '  to  contradict  your  ladyship  ;  I'll 
'  run  again  and  see.'  He  went,  and  soon  returned 
with  a  confirmation  of  the  dismal  tidings.  No  cere- 
mony could  now  bind  my  friend's  disappointed  mis- 
tress, she  testified  her  displeasure  in  the  openest 
manner ;  in  short,  she  now  began  to  find  fault  in 
turn,  and  at  last  insisted  upon  going  home,  just  at 
the  time  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tibbs  assured  che  company 
that  the  polite  hours  were  going  to  begin,  and  that 
the  ladies  would  instantaneously  be  entertained  with 
the  horns. 

[1760.]  A 


Louxger]  N     34  [Mackenzie 

A    COUNTRY   DOWAGER. 


Sed  in  Ionium  tamen  aviim 


Manserunt  hodieque  maneiit  vestigia  riiris. 

— HOR. 


'"H'HAT  there  is  Nobody  in  town,  is  the  obscn-ation 
-*-  of  every  person  one  has  met  for  several  weeks 
past ;  and  though  the  word  Nobody,  like  its  fellow- 
vocable  Everybody,  has  a  great  latitude  of  signification, 
and  in  this  instance  means  upwards  of  three  score 
thousand  people,  yet  Undoubtedly,  in  a  certain  rank 
of  life,  one  finds,  at  this  season,  a  very  great  blank 
in  one's  accustomed  society.  He  whom  circumstances 
oblige  to  remain  in  town,  feels  a  sort  of  imprisonment 
from  which  his  more  fortunate  acquaintance  have 
escaped  to  purer  air,  to  fresher  breezes,  and  a  clearer 
sky.  He  sees,  with  a  very  melancholy  aspect,  the 
close  window-shutters  of  deserted  houses,  the  rusted 

knockers, 
18 


242  A  COUNTRY  DOIVAGER. 

knockers,  and  mossy  pavement  of  unfrequented 
squares,  and  the  few  distant  scattered  figures  of 
empty  walks  ;  while  lie  fancies,  in  the  country,  the 
joyousness  of  the  reapers,  and  the  shout  of  the 
sportsman  enlivening  the  fields;  and  within  doors, 
the  hours  made  jocund  by  the  festivity  ot  assembled 
friends,  the  frolic,  the  dance,  and  the  song.    .    .   . 

I  am  not  sure  if,  in  the  regret  which  I  feel  for 
my  absence  from  the  country,  I  do  not  rate  its 
enjoyments  higher,  and  paint  its  landscapes  in  more 
glowing  colours,  than  the  reality  might  afford.  I 
have  long  cultivated  a  talent  very  fortunate  for  a  man 
of  my  disposition,  that  of  travelling  in  my  easy  chair, 
of  transporting  myself,  without  stirring  from  my 
-parlour,  to  distant  places  and  to  absent  friends,  of 
drawing  scenes  in  my  mind's  eye,  and  of  peopling 
them  with  the  groups  of  fancy,  or  the  society  of  re- 
membrance. When  I  have  sometimes  lately  felt  the 
dreariness  of  the  town,  deserted  by  my  acquaintance; 
when  I  have  returned  from  the  coffee-house  where 
the  boxes  were  unoccupied,  and  strolled  out  for  my 
accustomed  walk,  which  even  the  lame  beggar  had 
left;  I  was  fain  to  shut  myself  up  in  my  room,  order 
a  dish  of  my  best  tea  (for  there  is  a  sort  of  melancholy 
which  disposes  one  to  make  much  of  one's  self),  and 

callinc! 


A  COUNTRY  DOWAGER.  243 

calling  up  the  powers  of  memory  and  imagination, 
leave  the  solitary  town  for  a  solitude  more  interesting, 
which  mv  younger  days  enjoyed  in  the  country, 
which  I  think,  and  if  I  am  wrong  I  do  not  wish 
to  be  undeceived,  was  the  most  Elysian  spot  in  the 
world. 

'Twas  at  an  old  lady's,  a  relation  and  godmother  of 
mine  where  a  particular  incident  occasioned  my  being 
left  auring  the  vacation  of  two  successive  seasons. 
Her  house  >/as  formed  out  of  the  remains  of  an  old 
Gothic  castle,  of  which  one  tower  was  still  almost 
entire  ;  it  was  tenanted  by  kindly  daws  and  swallows. 
Beneath,  in  a  modernised  part  of  the  building,  resided 
the  mistress  of  the  mansion.  The  house  was  skirted 
with  a  few  majestic  elms  and  beeches,  and  the  stumps 
of  several  others  shewed  that  they  had  once  been 
more  numerous.  To  the  west,  a  clump  of  firs 
covered  a  ragged  rocky  dell,  where  the  rooks  claimed 
a  prescriptive  seignory.  Through  this  a  dashing 
rivulet  forced  its  way,  which  afterwards  grew  quiet 
in  its  progress;  and  gurgling  gently  through  a  piece 
of  downy  meadow-ground,  crossed  the  bottom  of  the 
garden,  where  a  little  rustic  paling  enclosed  a  washing- 
green,  and  a  wicker  seat,  fronting  the  south,  was 
placed  for  the  accommodation  of  the  old  Lady,  whose 

lesser 


244  '^  COUNTRY  DOfVAGER. 

lesser  tour,  when  lier  fields  did  not  require  a  visit,  use.I 
to  terminate  in  this  spot.  Here,  too,  were  ranged  the 
hives  for  her  bees,  w-hosc  hum,  in  a  still,  warm  sun- 
shine, soothed  the  good  old  Lady's  indolence,  while 
their  proverbial  industry  was  sometimes  quoted  for 
the  instruction  of  her  washers.  The  brook  ran  brawl- 
ing through  some  underwood  on  the  outside  of  the 
garden,  and  soon  after  formed  a  little  cascade,  which 
fell  into  the  river  that  winded  through  a  valley  in  front 
of  the  house.  When  haymaking  or  harvest  was  going 
on,  my  godmother  took  her  long  stick  in  her  hand, 
and  overlooked  the  labours  of  the  mowers  or  reapers  ; 
though  I  believe  there  was  little  thrift  in  the  super- 
intendencj',  as  the  visit  generally  cost  her  a  draught 
of  beer  or  a  dram,  to  encourage  their  diligence. 

Within  doors  she  had  so  able  an  assistant,  that  her 
labour  was  little.  In  that  department  an  old  man- 
servant was  her  minister,  the  father  of  my  Peter, 
who  serves  me  not  the  less  faithfully  that  we  have 
gathered  nuts  together  in  my  godmother's  hazel-bank. 
This  old  butler  (I  call  him  by  his  title  of  honour, 
though  in  truth  he  had  many  subordinate  offices) 
had  originally  enlisted  with  her  husband,  who  went 
into  the  army  a  youth,  though  he  afterwards  married 
and  became  a  country  gentleman,  had  been  his  ser- 
vant 


A  COUXTRY  DOWAGER.  245 

vant  abroad,  and  attended  him  during  his  last  iUness 
at  home.  His  best  hat,  which  he  wore  a-Sundays, 
with  a  scarlet  waistcoat  of  his  master's,  had  still  a 
cockade  in  it. 

Her  husband's  books  were  in  a  room  at  the  top  ot  a 
screw  staircase,  which  had  scarce  been  opened  since  his 
death  ;  but  her  own  library  for  Sabbath  or  rainy  days, 
was  ranged  in  a  little  book-press  in  the  parlour.  It 
consisted,  as  far  as  I  can  remember,  of  several  volumes 
of  sermons,  a  Concordance,  Thomas  a'Kempis,  Anto- 
ninus's  Meditations,  the  Works  of  the  Author  of  the 
Whole  Duty  of  Man,  and  a  translation  of  Boethius  ; 
the  original  editions  of  the  Spectator  and  Guardian, 
Cowley's  Poems,  Dryden's  Works  (of  which  I  had 
lost  a  volume  soon  after  I  first  came  about  her  house). 
Baker's  Chronicle,  Burnet's  History  of  his  own  Times, 
Lamb's  Royal  Cookery,  Abercromby's  Scots  War- 
riors, and  Nisbet's  Heraldry. 

The  subject  of  the  last-mentioned  book  was  mv  god- 
mother's strong  ground ;  and  she  could  disentangle  a 
point  of  genealogy  beyond  anybody  I  ever  knew.  She 
had  an  excellent  memory  for  anecdote,  and  her  stories, 
though  sometimes  long,  were  never  tiresome ;  for  she 
had  been  a  woman  of  great  beauty  and  accomplishments 
in  her  youth,  and  had  kept  such  company  as  made  the 

drama 


246  A  COUNTRY  DOWAGER. 

drama  of  her  stories  respectable  and  interesting.  She 
spoke  frequently  of  such  of  her  own  family  as  she  re- 
membered when  a  child,  but  scarcely  ever  of  those  she 
had  lost,  though  one  could  see  she  thought  of  them 
often.  She  had  buried  a  beloved  husband  and  four 
children.  Her  youngest,  Edward,  '  her  beautiful,  her 
'  brave,'  fell  in  Flanders,  and  was  not  entombed  with 
his  ancestors.  His  picture,  done  when  a  child,  an 
artless  red  and  white  portrait,  smelling  at  a  nosegay, 
but  very  like  withal,  hung  at  her  bedside,  and  his 
sword  and  gorget  were  crossed  under  it.  When  she 
spoke  of  a  soldier,  it  was  in  a  style  above  her  usual 
simplicity  ;  there  was  a  cort  of  swell  in  her  language, 
which  sometimes  a  tear  (for  her  age  had  not  lost  the 
privilege  of  tears)  made  still  more  eloquent.  She  kept 
her  sorrows,  like  the  devotions  that  solaced  them, 
sacred  to  herself.  They  threw  nothing  of  gloom  over 
her  deportment ;  a  gentle  shade  only,  like  the  fleckered 
clouds  of  summer,  that  increase,  not  diminish,  the 
benignity  of  the  season. 

She  had  few  neighbours,  and  still  fewer  visitors ; 
but  her  reception  of  such  as  did  visit  her  was  cordial  in 
the  extreme.  She  pressed  a  little  too  much,  perhaps; 
but  there  was  so  much  heart  and  good-will  in  her  impor- 
tunity, as  made  her  good  things  seem  better  than  those 

of 


A  COUNTRY  DOWAGER.  247 

of  any  other  table.  Nor  was  her  attention  confined 
only  to  the  good  fare  of  her  guests,  though  it  might  have 
flattered  her  vanity  more  than  that  of  most  exhibitors 
of  good  dinners,  because  the  cookery  was  generally 
directed  by  herself.  Their  servants  lived  as  well  in  her 
hall,  and  their  horses  in  her  stable.  She  looked  after 
tlie  airing  of  their  sheets,  and  saw  their  fires  mended 
if  the  night  was  cold.  Her  old  butler,  who  rose 
betimes,  would  never  suffer  any  body  to  mount  his 
horse  fasting. 

The  parson  of  the  parish  was  her  guest  every  Sun- 
day, and  said  prayers  in  the  evening.  To  say  truth, 
he  was  no  great  genius,  nor  much  a  scholar.  I  believe 
my  godmother  knew  rather  more  of  divinity  than  he 
did ;  but  she  received  from  him  information  of  another 
sort;  he  told  her  who  were  the  poor,  the  sick,  the 
dying  of  the  parish,  and  she  had  some  assistance,  some 
comfort  for  them  all. 

I  could  draw  the  old  lady  at  this  moment! — dressed 
in  grey,  with  a  clean  whice  hood  nicely  plaited  (for  she 
was  somewhat  finical  about  the  neatness  of  her  person), 
sitting  in  her  straight-backed  elbow-chair,  which  stood 
in  a  large  window  scooped  out  of  the  thickness  of  the 
ancient  wall.  The  middle  panes  of  the  window  were 
of  painted  glass,  the  story  of  Joseph  and  his  brethren. 

On 


248  A  COUNTRY  DOIVAGER. 

On  the  outside  waved  a  honeysuckle-tree,  which  often 
tlirew  its  shade  across  her  book  or  her  work  ;  but  she 
would  not  allow  it  to  be  cut  down.  '  It  has  stood  there 
'  many  a  day,'  said  she,  '  and  we  old  inhabitants  should 
'  bear  with  one  another.'  Methinks  I  see  her  thus 
seated,  her  spectacles  on,  but  raised  a  little  on  her  brow 
for  a  pause  of  explanation,  their  shagreen-case  laid  be- 
tween the  leaves  of  a  silver-clasped  family-bible.— On 
one  side  her  bell  and  snuff-box  ;  on  the  other  her  knit- 
ting apparatus  in  a  blue  damask  bag.  Between  her  and 
the  fire  an  old  Spanish  pointer,  that  had  formerly  been 
her  son  Edward's,  teased,  but  not  teased  out  of  his 
gravity,  by  a  little  terrier  of  mine.  All  this  is  before 
me,  and  I  am  a  hundred  milesf  rom  town,  its  inhabi- 
tants, and  its  business.  In  town  I  may  have  seen 
such  a  figure ;  but  the  country  scenery  around,  like 
the  tasteful  frame  of  an  excellent  picture,  gives  it 
a  heightening,  a  relief,  which  it  would  lose  in  any 
other  situation. 

Some  of  my  readers,  perhaps,  will  look  with  little 
relish  on  the  portrait.  I  know  it  is  an  egotism  in  me 
to  talk  of  its  value  ;  but  over  this  dish  of  tea,  and  in 
such  a  temper  of  mind,  one  is  given  to  egotism.  It 
will  be  only  adding  another  to  say,  that  when  I  recal 
the  rural  scene  of  the   good  old   lady's   abode,   her 

simple, 


A  COUNTRY  DOirAGER.  249 

simple,  her  innocent,  her  useful  employments,  the 
afflictions  she  sustained  in  this  world,  the  comforts 
she  drew  from  another,  I  feel  a  serenity  of  soul, 
a  benignity  of  affections,  which  I  am  sure  confer 
happiness,  and  I  think  must  promote  virtue. 

[Sept.  50,  1786.] 


ILLUSTRATIVE 


ILLUSTRATIVE  NOTES. 


No.  I,  page  I. — Mr.  BicL-rstaff  J'isils  a  Friend. 
— For  those  to  wliom  the  touching  domestic  picture 
contained  in  this  and  the  following  paper  is  un- 
familiar, it  may  be  well  to  recall  a  passage  from  Mr. 
Forster's  Steele  (Historical  and  Biographical  Essays, 
1858,  ii.,  158): — '  In  connexion  with  it,  too,  it  is  to 
'  be  remembered  that  at  this  time  [1709],  as  Mr. 
'  Macaulay  obser%'es  in  his  Essay,  no  such  thing  as 
'  the  English  novel  existed.  De  Foe  as  yet  was 
'  only  an  eager  politician,  Richardson  an  industrious 
'  compositor,  Fielding  a  mischievous  schoolboy,  and 
'  Smollett  and  Goldsmith  were  not  born.  For  your 
'  circulating  libraries  (the  first  of  which  had  been 
'  established  some  six  years  before,  to  the  horror  of 
'  sellers  of  books,  and  the  ruin  of  its  ingenious  in- 
'  ventor)  there  was  as  yet  nothing  livelier,  in  that 
'  direction,  than  the  interminable  Grand  Cyrus  of 
'  Madame  de  Scuderi,  or  the  long-winded  Cassandra 
'  and  Pharamond  of  the  lord  of  La  Calprenede,  which 
'  Steele  so  heartily  laughed  at  in  his  Tender  Husband.' 

A  'point  of  war'  (p.  7)  is  used  by  Shakespeare 
and  the  Elizabethans  for  a  strain  of  military  music. — 
(See  Henrv  IV.,  Act  iv.,  Sc.  i.)     'John  Hickathrift* 

(p.  8) 


252  ILLUSTRATIVE  NOTES. 

(p.  8)  is  generally  styled  '  Thomas'  in  the  '  Pleasant 
'  and  Delightful  Histories '  which  record  his  adven- 
tures. But  Sterne  also  calls  him  'Jack'  in  vol.  i., 
ch.  xiv.  of  Tristram  Shandy. 


No.  2,  page  lO. — Mr.  Bickerstaff  Visits  a  Friend 
(continued). — The  latter  part  of  this  paper  was  writ- 
ten by  Addison.  '  It  would  seem  [to  quote  Mr. 
'  Forster  once  more]  as  though  Steele  felt  himself 
'  unable  to  proceed,  and  his  friend  had  taken  the  pen 
'  from  his  trembling  hand.' — (ib.,  p.  141.) 

'  Favonius  '  (p.  11),  as  Steele  acknowledges  in  the 
'Preface'  to  the  Tatler  of  1710  (vol.  iv.),  was  Dr. 
George  Smalridge,  at  that  time  Lecturer  of  St.  Dun- 
stan's,  Fleet  Street,  and  ultimately  Bishop  of  Bristol. 
He  took  part,  on  the  side  of  the  ancients,  in  the  Boyle 
and  Bentley  controversy.  Macaulay,  in  the  life  of 
Atterbury  which  he  wrote  in  1855  for  i\\t  Encyclo- 
pitdia  Britannica,  calls  him  '  the  humane  and  accom- 
'  plished  Smalridge.'  There  is  an  excellent  print  of 
him  by  Vertue  after  Kneller  (1724). 


No.  3,  page  17.  —  The  Trumpet  Club. — 'Jack 
'  Ogle  '  (p.  20)  was  a  noted  gambler  and  duellist.  On 
one  occasion,  having  lost  his  "  martial  cloak  "  at  play, 
he  came  to  muster  in  his  landlady's  red  petticoat. 
The  Duke  of  Monmouth,  who  was  in  the  secret, 
ordered  the  troop  to  cloak.  '  Gentlemen,'  bawled  the 
unabashed  Ogle,  '  if  I  can't  cloak,  I  can  petticoat  with 
'  the  best  of  you  !  '     This  is  the  Bencher's  story. 

Mr. 


ILLUSTRATIVE  XOTES.  255 

Mr.  Bickerstaff's  '  maid  with  a  lanthorn '  (p.  22) 
tlirows  a  curious  light  upon  the  dim  nocturnal 
London  of  1710,  where  only  in  the  more  frequented 
thoroughfares, 

' oily  rays, 

'  Shot  from  the  crystal  lamp,  o'erspiead  the  way.>.' 

For  some  of  its  many  perils  to  belated  pedestrians, 
consult  Gay's  Trivia,  Bk.  iii.,  1.  335  ft  sc(]. 

The  Trumpet  was  a  public-house  in  Sheer-  or  Shire- 
Lane,  by  Temple  Bar,  where  the  New  Law  Courts 
now  stand.  It  still  existed  as  the  Diihe  of  York  in 
Leigh  Hunt's  time. ^(r/;f  Toivn,  18(8,  i.,  148.) 


No.  4,  page  24. — The  Political  Upholsterer. — 
King  Augustus  of  Poland  (p.  25)  was  deposed  in 
1704;  Charles  XII.  of  Sweden  (p.  26)  was  wounded 
in  a  skirmish  on  the  banks  of  the  Vorskla  before  Pol- 
t.iva,  June  28th,  1709.  The  winter  muff  for  men 
(p.  25)  which  figures  among  the  '  shabby  super- 
'  fluities  '  of  the  Upholsterer's  costume,  although  of 
anterior  date,  is  not  often  referred  to  so  early.  Ex- 
amples of  it  are  to  be  seen  in  Hogarth's  Swearing  a 
Child  (1735),  Rake's  Progress  (1735),  PI.  iv.,  and 
Taste  in  High  Life  (1742).  But  it  was  most  in  fashion 
twenty  or  thirty  years  later.  In  November  1766,  my 
Lord  of  March  and  Ruglen  (the  March  of  the  Vir- 
giiiiaiis)  writes  thus  to  George  Selwyn  at  Paris  :^ 
'  The  muff  you  sent  me  by  the  Duke  of  Richmond  I 
'  like  prodigiously ;  vastly  better  than  if  it  had  been 
'  tigre,   or  of  any  glaring  colour  :    several  are  now 

'  making 


254  ILLUSTRATIVE  NOTES. 

'  making  after  it. '--(Jesse's  Sehuyn,  1845,  ii.,  71  ;  see 
also  Goldsmith's  Bee,  1759,  No.  ii.,  '  On  Dress.') 

Fielding's  comedy  of  the  Coffee-Housc  Politician, 
1750,  has  certain  affinities  with  this  paper  ;  and 
Arthur  Murphy's  farce  of  The  Upholsterer ;  or.  What 
Neu's?  1758,  is  said  to  have  been  based  upon  it. 
It  has  also  been  alleged  that  Mr.  Edward  Arne,  an 
upholsterer  at  the  sign  of  the  '  Two  Crowns  and 
'  Cushions,'  in  King  Street,  Covent  Garden,  father 
of  Arne  the  musician,  and  Mrs.  Gibber  the  tragic 
actress,  was  the  person  here  satirised  by  Addison. 
In  identifications  of  this  sort,  however,  the  fol- 
lowing passage  may  well  be  borne  in  mind : — '  To 
'  prevent,  therefore,  any  such  malicious  applications, 
'  I  declare  here,  once  for  all,  I  describe  not  men,  but 
'manners;  not  an  individual,  but  a  species.  Perhaps 
'  it  will  be  answered,  Are  not  the  characters  then 
'  taken  from  life  ?  To  which  I  answer  in  the  affirma- 
'  tive ;  nay,  I  believe  I  might  aver  that  I  have  writ 
'  little  more  than  I  have  setn.'—{Jjseph  Animus,  Bk, 
iii.,  ch.  i.) 


No.  5,  page  31. — TomFoUo. — Rightly  or  wrong- 
ly (see  previous  note),  '  Tom  Folio '  has  been  said  to  be 
intended  for  Thomas  Rawlinson,  a  famous  book-lover 
of  the  Eighteenth  Century.  According  to  Dibdin,  he 
was  '  a  very  extraordinary  character,  and  most  des- 
'  perately  addicted  to  book-hunting.  Because  his  own 
'  house  was  not  large  enough,  he  hired  London  House, 
'  in  Aldersgate  Street,  for  the  reception  of  his  library, 
'  and  here  he  used  to  regale  himself  with  the  sight 

'  and 


ILLUSTRATIVE  SOTES.  25$ 

'  and  the  scent  of  innumerable  black-letter  volumes, 
'arranged  in  "sable  garb,"  and  stowed  perhaps 
'  "  three-deep,"  from  the  bottom  to  the  top  of  his 
'  house.  He  died  in  1725  ;  and  Catalogues  of  his 
'  books  for  sale  continued,  for  nine  successive  years, 
'  to  meet  the  public  eye.'— {The  Bibliomania ;  or,  Book- 
Madness,  1809,  p.  53.) 

The  quotation  (p.  36)  is  from  Boileau's  fourth 
satire,  addressed  in  1664  to  Monsieur  I'Abbe  le 
Vaver. 


No.  6,  page  37. — Kcd  Softly  th:  Poet. — Although 
the  fact  seems  to  have  escaped  Chalmers  and  the 
earlier  annotators,  Addison  must  plainly  have  been 
thinking  of  Scene  IX.  of  Les  Precicnses  Ridicules  when 
he  penned  this  pleasant  piece  of  raillery  : — 

'  Mascarille.^-y}7'^2-7/(5ttj  remanjue  ce  cointnencement : 
'Oh!  oh?  Voila  qui  est  extraoriiiiiaire :  oh,  oh  .'  Coinme 
'  un  homine  qui  s'avhe  tout  dun  couJ> :  oh,  oh  I  La  sur' 
'  prise :  oh,  oh  1 

'  Madelon. — Oui,  je  trouve  ce  oh,  oh  !  admirable. 

'  Mascarille. — /t  setnble  que  cela  ne  soit  rien. 

'  Cathos. — Ah  I  vion  Dieu,  que  dites-vous?  Ce  sont  H 
'  de  ces  sortes  de  choses  qui  ue  se  peuvent  payer. 

'  Madelon. — Sans  doute  ;  etj  aimerois  miezix  avoir  fait 
ce  oh,  oh  !  qu'un  poeme  epique.' — {Les  Grands  Ecrivaim 
de  la  France :  Moliire,  1875,  ii  ,  86.) 


No.    7,   page  ^4.-^Recolleclions  of  Childhood.— 
There   is   a  stanza  in  Prior's  poem  of  The  Garland, 

which 


2S6  ILLUST1L4TIVE  NOTES. 

which  has  a  superficial  resemblance  to  Steele's  words 
at  p.  49  respecting  his  first  love  : — 

'  At  Dawn  poor  Stella  danc'd  and  sung  ; 

'  The  am'rous  Youth  around  Her  bow'd  ; 
'  At  Night  her  fatal  Knell  was  rung  ; 

'  I  saw,  and  kiss'd  Her  in  her  Shioud.' 

The  Garland  is  not  included  in  Prior's  Poems  on  Several 
Occasions,  1709  ;  but  it  appears  at  p.  91  of  the  folio  of 
1718.  It  is  therefore  just  possible  that  the  lines  may 
have  been  suggested  by  Steele's  paper. 

Garraway's  Coffee-House  (p.  50),  where  '  merchants 
'  most  did  congregate,'  was  in  Exchange  Alley,  Corn- 
hill;  and,  in  the  original  folio  issue  of  this  '  Taller,' 
there  is  a  long  advertisement  of  the  coming  sale  of 
'  46  Hogsheads  and  One  half  of  extraordinary  French 
'  Claret,'  for  which  Steele's  concluding  paragraph  is 
no  doubt  a  '  pufF  collateral.' 

Comparing  the  treatment  of  Death  by  Swift,  Ad- 
dison, and  Steele,  Mr.  Thackeray  selected  the  second 
paragraph  of  this  essay  for  its  characteristic  contrast 
to  Addison's  '  lonely  serenity '  and  Swift's  '  savage 
'  indignation  : ' — 'The  third,  whose  theme  is  Death, 
'  too,  and  who  will  speak  his  word  of  moral  as 
'  Heaven  teaches  him,  leads  you  up  to  his  father's 
'  coffin,  and  shews  you  his  beautiful  mother  weeping, 
'  and  himself  an  unconscious  little  boy  wondering  at 
'  her  side.  His  own  natural  tears  flow  as  he  takes 
'  your  hand,  and  confidingly  asks  for  your  sympathy. 
'  "  See  how  good  and  innocent  and  beautiful  women 
'  "  are,"  he  says,  "  how  tender  little  children  !  Let 
'  "  us   love  these  and   one    another,    brother — God 

'  "  knows 


ILLUSTRATIVE  XOTLS.  2:7 

'  "  knows  we  have  need  of  love  and  pardon."  ' — (The 
English  Humourists  of  the  Eighteenth  Century  :  Steele, 
1855,  p.  149.) 


No.  8,  page  51. — Adventures  of  a  Shilling. — 
Hawkesworth  copied  this  idea  in  the  Adventurer,  No. 
4;,  substituting  a  haUpenny  for  a  shilling,  and  later 
Charles  Johnstone  amplified  it  into  Chrysiil  ;  or, 
the  Adventures  of  a  Guinea,  1 760-5.  The  inventive 
'  friend  '  of  the  first  lines  was  Swift.  In  the  Journal 
to  Stella,  Dec.  14,  1710,  he  refers  to  the  paper,  saying 
that  he  did  not  do  more  than  give  the  '  hint  and  two 
'  or  three  general  heads  for  it.' 

The  allusion  to  '  Westminster  Hall  '  (p.  54)  sug- 
gests Lloyd's  lines  in  the  Laiv  Student — ■ 

'  'T'S  not  enough  each  morn,  on  Term's  approach, 
'  I'o  club  yuur  legal  threepence  for  a  coach,' 

but  they  belong  to  a  later  date.  '  A  monstrous  pair 
'  of  breeches'  (p.  56)  is  said  to  refer  to  the  hose- 
like shields  on  the  Commonwealth  coinage.  John 
Philips,  author  of  The  Splendid  Shilling  (p.  57),  died 
in  1708. 


No.   9,  page  59. — Frozen  Voices. — According  to 

Tickell,  Steele  assisted  in  this  paper.     Its  germ  may 

perhaps  be  traced  to  Rabelais,  Book  iv..  Chaps.  5  5,  56 

(i.e. — '  Comment  en  haulte  mer  Pantagruel  ou\t  diuerses 

'  parolles  desgelees,'  and   'Comment,   entre  les   parolles 

'  gelees 
19  ^ 


3J8  ILLUSTRATIVE  NOTES. 

'  gches,  Pantagrucl  Ireiiua  des  vwti  dt-  gnciille) ;'  or  to 
the  following  passage  from  Heylyn's  description  ot 
Muscovie  : — '  This  excesse  of  cold  in  the  ayre,  gaue 
'  occasion  to  Castilian  in  his  Aulicus,  wittily  &  not 
'  incongruously  to  faine  ;  that  if  two  men  beinj 
'  somewhat  distant,  talke  together  in  the  winter, 
'  their  words  will  be  so  frozen,  that  they  cannot  bee 
'  heard  :  but  if  the  parties  in  the  spring  returne  to 
'  the  same  place,  their  words  wil  melt  in  the  same 
'  order  that  they  were  frozen  and  spoken,  &  bj 
'  plainely  vnderstood.' — (MiKpoKOcrpLos,  a  little  Descrip- 
tion of  the  great  JForld,  4th  edn.,  1629,  p.  345.)* 

The  episode  of  the  Frenchmen's  kit  (p.  65)  may 
be  compared  with  the  later  account  in  Munchhausen 
of  the  postillion's  horn  that  began  to  play  of  it.; 
own  accord  when  hung  in  the  chimney  corner  :  — 
'  Suddenly  we  heard  a  Tereng !  tereiig !  teiig !  teng! 
'  We  looked  round,  and  now  found  the  reason  why 
'  the  postillion  had  not  been  able  to  sound  his  horn  ; 
'  his  tunes  were  frozen  up  in  the  horn,  and  came  out 
'  now  by  thawing,  plain  enough,  and  much  to  the 

*  Heylyn  muiit  have  quoted  from  memory,  for  Casiiltun's 
(Castiglioiie's)  story,  which  is  too  long  for  reproduction, 
differs  in  some  respects  from  the  above. — (See  //  Crrie- 
giatto,  or  the  Courtier,  Italian  and  English,  London,  1727, 
Bk.  ii.,  p.  189.)  But  the  idea  is  probably  much  earlier 
than  any  of  the  writers  n.tmed.  In  Notes  and  Queries  for 
1850  will  be  found  a  full  discussion  of  this  question,  for 
reference  10  which,  as  well  as  for  many  other  friendly 
services  that  deserve  more  prominent  recognition  than  a 
footnote,  we  are  indebted  to  the  kindness  of  Mr.  R.  F. 
Sketchley,  Keeper  of  the  Dyce  and  Forster  Library  at 
South  Kensington. 

'  credit 


ILLUSTRATIVE  XOTES.  259 

'  credit  of  the  driver  :  so  that  the  honest  fellow  enter- 
'  tained  us  for  some  time  with  a  variety  of  tunes, 
'  without  putting  his  mouth  to  the  horri — The  King 

*  of  Prussia's  march — Over  the  hill  and  over  the  dale 

*  —with  many  other  favourite  tunes:  at  length  the 

*  thawing  entertainment  concluded,   as   I   shall  this 

*  short  account  of  my  Russian  travels.' — (The  Sur- 
prising Travels  and  Adventures  of  Baron  Mtwchhaiisrn, 
Hughes's  edn.,  no  date,  p.  19.  The  book  was  first 
published  by  Kearsley  in  1786.) 


No.  10,  page  Cj. — Singe  Lions. — Nicolino  Grim- 
aldi,  or  'Nicolini,'  came  to  London  in  1708,  and  in 
the  Taller  of  January  5,  1710  (No.  115)  Steele  gives 
a  highly  favourable  account  of  his  powers.  He  had 
not  only  a  good  voice,  but,  as  Addison  also  admits 
(p.  72),  he  was  a  good  actor  as  well ;  and  Gibber 
thought  '  that  no  Singer,  since  his  Time,  had  so 
'  justly  and  gracefully  acquitted  himself,  in  whatever 
'  Gharacter  he  appear'd,  as  Nicolini.' — (An  Apology 
for  the  Life  of  Mr.  Colin  Cibbcr,  Comedian,  1740, 
p.  225.)  There  is  a  further  reference  to  him  in  No. 
405  of  the  Spectator. 

Hydaspes  (p.  68)  was  first  produced  on  May  '25, 
1710.  Being  thrown  naked  to  a  lion,  the  hero, 
after  an  operatic  combat  s.lon  les  regies,  strangles  his 
opponent. 


No.     II,    page    73. — Meditations  in   IFestminsfer 
Abbey. — Bird's  Monument    to    Sir    Gloudesly  Shovel 

(P-7^) 


26o  ILLUSTRATIVE  NOTES. 

(p.  72)  is  in  the  south  aisle  of  the  Choir.  The  con- 
cluding paragraph  of  this  paper  may  be  contrasted 
with  another  classic  passage  : — '  O  Eloquent,  Just 
'  and  Mighty  Death  !  whom  none  could  advise,  thou 
'  hast  perswadcd  ;  what  none  hath  dared,  thou  hast 
'  done  ;  and  whom  all  the  World  hath  flattered,  thou 
'  only  hast  cast  out  of  the  World  and  despised  :  thou 
'  hast  drawn  together  all  the  far  stretched  Greatness, 
'  all  the  Pride,  Cruelty  and  Ambition  of  Man,  and 
'  covered  it  all  over  with  these  two  narrow  words, 
'  Hk  jacet.'  The  grave  words  of  Addison  pale  beside 
the  grave  words  of  Raleigh,  and  the  difference  in 
style  is  the  difference  between  the  Eighteenth  Cen- 
tury and  the  Seventeenth.  Unfortunately,  the  His- 
tory of  the  World  is  not  entirely  of  a  piece  with  the 
above  quotation. 


No.  12,  page  79. — The  Exercise  of  the  Fan. — 
The  first  suggestion  of  this  essay,  like  some  others  by 
Addison,  is  due  to  Steele  (see  the  account  of  the  Fan 
which  the  '  beauteous  Delamira '  resigns  to  the 
'  matchless  Virgulta '  in  the  Tatler  for  August  9, 
1709,  No.  52).  The  following  verses  by  Atterbury, 
which  Steele  quotes  in  Tatler  Ho.  239,  may  also  have 
been  in  Addison's  mind  : — 

'  Flavia  the  least  and  slightest  toy 
'  Can  with  resistless  art  employ. 
'  'I'his  fan  in  meaner  hands  would  prove 
'  An  engine  of  small  force  in  love  ; 
'  But  she  with  such  an  air  and  mien, 
'  Not  to  be  told,  or  safely  seen, 

'  Directs 


ILLUSTRATIVE  NOTES.  261 

'  Directs  its  wanton  motions  so, 
'  That  it  wounds  more  than  Cupid's  bow  ; 
'  Gives  coolness  to  the  mntcliless  dame, 
'  To  ev'ry  other  breast  a  flame.' 

A  more  modern  illustration  of  the  use  of  this  danger- 
ous weapon  is  to  be  found  in  the  Spanish  experiences 
of  Contarini  Fleming  (part  v.,  ch.  6)  : — '  But  the  fan 
'  is  the  most  wonderful  part  of  the  whole  scene.  A 
'  Spanish  lad)',  with  her  fan,  might  shame  the  tactics 
'  of  a  troop  of  horse.  Now  she  unfurls  it  with  the 
'  slow  pomp  and  conscious  elegance  of  the  bird  of 
'  Juno  ;  now  she  flutters  it  with  all  the  languor  of  a 
'  listless  beauty,  now  with  all  the  liveliness  of  a  viva- 
'  cious  one.  Now,  in  the  midst  of  a  very  tornado, 
'  she  closes  it  with  a  whirr,  which  makes  vou  start. 
'  .  .  >  .  Magical  instrument !  In  this  land  it  speaks 
'  a  particular  language,  and  gallantry  requires  no 
'  other  mode  to  express  its  most  subtle  conceits  or 
'  its  most  unreasonable  demands  than  this  delicate 
'machine.'  'Machine'  and  'tactics'  read  a  little 
suspiciously ;  and  it  may  be  that  Lord  Beaconsfield 
in  turn  remembered  his  Spectator. 


No.  13,  page  85. — /r/// /r/mWc— Steele's  first 
outline  of  Sir  Roger  is  here  printed  as  it  appears  in  the 
folio  issue  of  the  Spectator  (No.  2,  March  2,  1711): — 

'  The  first  of  our  Society  is  a  Gentleman  of  H'or- 
'  cestershire,  of  ancient  Descent,  a  Baronet,  his  Name 
'  Sir  Roger  de  Coverly.  His  great  Grandfather 
'  was  Inventor  of  that  famous  Country-Dance  which 
'  is  call'd  after  him.     All  who  know  that  Shire,  are 

'  very 


262  ILLUSTRATIVE  NOTES. 

very  well  acquainted  with  the  Parts  and  Merits  of 
Sir  Roger.  He  is  a  Gentleman  that  is  very  singu- 
lar in  his  Behaviour,  but  his  Singularities  proceed 
from  his  good  Sense,  and  are  Contradictions  to 
the  Manners  of  the  World,  only  as  he  thinks  the 
World  is  in  the  wrong.  However,  this  Humour 
creates  him  no  Enemies,  for  he  does  nothing  with 
Sowerness  or  Obstinacy;  and  his  being  unconfined 
to  Modes  and  Forms,  makes  him  but  the  readier 
and  more  capable  to  please  and  oblige  all  who  know 
him.  When  he  is  in  Town  he  lives  in  Soho-Sqitare : 
It  is  said,  he  keeps  himself  a  Batchelour  by  reason 
he  was  crossed  in  Love,  by  a  perverse  beautiful 
Widow  of  the  next  County  to  him.  Before  this 
Disappointment,  Sir  Roger  was  what  you  call  a  fine 
Gentleman,  had  often  supped  with  my  Lord  Rochester 
and  Sir  George  Etberege,  fought  a  Due!  upon  his 
first  coming  to  Town,  and  kick'd  Bully  Dau'son 
in  a  publick  Coffee-house  for  calling  him  Youngster. 
But  being  ill-used  by  the  above-mentioned  Widow, 
he  was  very  serious  i'or  a  Year  and  a  half;  and  tho' 
his  Temper  being  naturally  jovial,  he  at  last  got 
over  it,  he  grew  careless  of  himself,  and  never 
dressed  afterwards  ;  he  continues  to  wear  a  Coat 
and  Doublet  of  the  same  Cut  that  were  in  Fashion 
at  the  Time  of  his  Repulse,  which,  in  his  merry 
Humours,  he  tells  us,  has  been  in  and  out  twelve 

Times  since  he  first  wore  it He  is  now 

in  his  Fiftysixth  Year,  cheerful,  gay,  and  hearty; 
keeps  a  good  House  both  in  Town  and  Country ; 
a  great  Lover  of  Mankind  ;  but  there  is  such  a 
mirthful  Cast  in   his   Behaviour,  that  he  is  rather 

'  beloved 


ILLUSTRATIVE  NOTES.  26} 

'  beloved  than  esteemed  :  His  Tenants  grow  rich, 
'  his  Servants  look  satisfied,  all  the  young  Women 
'  profess  Love  to  him,  and  the  young  Men  are  glad  of 
'  his  Company  :  When  he  comes  into  a  House  he 
'  calls  the  Servants  by  their  Names,  and  talks  all  the 
'  Way  up  Stairs  to  a  Visit.  I  must  not  omit  that  Sir 
'  Roger  is  a  Justice  of  the  Quorum ;  that  he  fills  the 
'  Chair  at  a  Quarter-Session  with  great  Abilities,  and 
'  three  Months  ago,  gain'd  universal  Applause  by 
'  explaining  a  Passage  in  the  Game-Act.'  The  charac- 
ter thus  generally  sketched,  v,-as  subsequently  elabo- 
rated, though  not  without  certain  discrepancies,  into 
one  of  the  most  popular  personages  of  fiction.  The 
lion's  share  of  the  work  was  Addison's,  Steele's  contri- 
butions being  only  seven  in  number.  Budgell  and 
Tickell  also  assisted.  (See  No.  i^.  Sir  Roger  de 
Coverley  Harc-Hutitiug,  and  note  to  No.  21,  Death  of 
Sir  Roger  de  Coverley.') 

Sir  John  Packington,  a  Tory  Knight  of  Worcester, 
has  been  named  as  the  original  of  Sir  Roger  ;  while 
the  death  of  the  reputed  prototype  of  Will.  Wimble 
is  thus  recorded  in  the  Gentleman  s  Magazine  for 
1741,  p.  387: — ^  July  2.  At  Dublin,  Mr.  Tho.  More- 
'  croft,  a.  Baronet's  younger  Son,  the  Person  men- 
'  tioned  by  the  Spectator  in  the  Character  of  fFill. 
'  JVimble.'  But,  for  the  reasons  given  in  a  previous 
note,  no  real  importance  can  be  attached  to  either  of 
these  indications.  It  is  much  more  likely,  as  sug- 
gested by  Mr.  W.  Henry  Wills  {Sir  Roger  de  Coverley, 
1850,  p.  195),  that  the  character  of  Wimble  grew 
out  of  a  hint  of  Steele's. — (See  account  of  '  Mr. 
'  Thomas  Gules  of  Gule  Hall,'  Tatler,  No.  256.) 

No. 


264  ILLUSTRATIVE  XOTES. 

No.  14,  page  91. — Sir  Roger  de  Ccuerleys 
Ancestors. — In  Fisher's  Ground  Plan  of  IVhitchall, 
1680,  the  Tilt- Yard  (p.  92)  is  shewn  facing  the  Ban- 
queting House,  and  extending  to  the  right.  Jenny 
Man's  '  Tilt- Yard  Coffee  House,'  to  which  Sir  Roger 
refers,  is  said  to  have  stood  on  the  site  at  present 
occupied  by  the  Paymaster  General's  Office,  and  still 
existed  in  1819.  Now  (1882),  the  Paymaster  Gene- 
ral's itself  is  to  be  pulled  down,  and  in  a  brief  space 
of  time  fresh  structures  will  again  arise  upon  the  spot 
where  the  Knight's  ancestor  manipulated  his  adversary 
with  such  '  laudable  Courtesy  and  pardonable  Inso- 
'  lence.'     As  Bramston  sings  : — 

'  What's  not  destroy'd  by  Time's  devouring  hand  ? 

'  Where's  Troy,  and  where's  the  may-pole  in  the  Strand  ?' 

A  '  White-pot'  (p.  94),  according  to  Halliwell,  is  a  dish 
made  of  cream,  sugar,  rice,  cinnamon,  &c.,  formerly 
much  eaten  in  Devonshire.  Gay,  who  came  from  that 
county,  thus  refers  to  it  in  the  Shepherd's  Week,  1714 : — 

'  Pudding  our  Parson  eats,  the  Squire  loves  Hare, 
'  But  White-pot  thick  is  my  B7ixo77ias  Fare.* 

--Monday  ;  or,  the  Sqjtabble. 

No.  15,  page  98.— 5(V  Roger  de  Coverley  Hare- 
Hunting.— Ks  to  Sir  Roger's  solicitude  with  respect 
to  the  voices  of  his  dogs,  compare  Somervile's  Chacc, 
1J}S<  Bk.  i.  p.  18:— 

'  But  above  all  take  heed,  nor  mix  thy  Hounds 
'  Of  diflF'rent  Kinds  ;  discordant  sounds  shall  grate 
'Tliy  Ears  offended,  and  a  iaga:ing  Line 
'  Ol  babbling  Curs  disgrace  thy  broken  Pack.' 

The 


ILLUSTRATIVE  XOTES.  :(-,'^ 

The  concluding  portion  of  this  paper,  on  the  advan- 
tages of  hunting,  has  been  omitted. 


No.  16,  page  105.  —  The  Citizen's  JoiirmL — 
The  '  falhng  of  a  pewter  dish  '  (p.  109)  suggests  an 
eighteenth-century  detail  hardly  realizable  in  these 
days,  namely,  the  scarcity  of  common  earthenware. 
Plates,  basins,  spoons,  flagons, — everything  was  pew- 
ter. Some  quamt  illustrations  of  this  are  to  be  found 
in  a  very  interesting  article  on  '  Mrs.  Harris's  House- 
'  hold  Book'  which  appeared  in  the  Saturdciv  Rcvinu 
for  January  21st,  1882.  'Brooke  [not  "Brook's"] 
'and  Hellier'  (p.  iii)  were  Wine -Merchants  in 
'Basing  lane  near  Bread  -  Street,'  who  frequently 
advertised  in  the  Spectator  {see  Nos.  150  ct  seq.,  ori- 
ginal issue),  a  fact  which  probably  accounts  for  their 
presence  in  the  text,  here  and  elsewhere,  as  neither 
Steele  nor  Addison  seem  to  have  been  averse  to  'back- 
'  ing  of  their  friends.' 

Every  club  or  coffee-house  (we  must  assume)  had 
its  private  oracle,  who,  at  Wills'  or  the  Grecian, 

'  Like  Cnio,  cave  his  little  Senate  laws, 
'  And  sat  attentive  to  his  own  applause  ; ' 

or  like  Mr.  Nisby,  in  the  humbler  houses  of  call, 

'Emptied  his  pint,  and  sputter'd  his  decrees,' 

through  a  cloud  of  Virginia. 

'Laced  Coffee' — it  is  perhaps  needless  to  add — is 
coffee  dashed  with  spirits. 

No. 


266  ILLUSTRATIVE  NOTES. 

No.  17,  page  113.  —  The  Fine  Lady's  Journal. 
— '  Bohea  '  (p.  115),  in  Clarinda's  time,  was  205.  a  lb. 
(see  the  '  Private  Account  Book  of  Isabella,  Duchess  of 
'  Grafton,'  in  the  HanmTr  Correspondence,  1858,  p.  259). 
'  Aurengzebe '  (p.  116)  was  an  heroic  play  produced 
by  Dryden  in  1675;  'Indamora'  (p.  117)  was  the 
name  of  the  heroine.  For  Nicolini,  see  Note  to  No. 
10,  Stage  Lions.  The  'dumb  man'  (p.  119)  was 
Duncan  Campbell,  a  fashionable  fortune-teller,  whose 
head-quarters  in  1712  (see  Spectator,  No.  474)  were  at 
the  '  Golden  Lion '  in  Drury  Lane.  De  Foe  com- 
piled a  popular  life  of  him,  which  Curll  published 
ni  1720.  He  was  then  '  living  in  Exeter  Court, 
'  over  against  the  Savoy,  in  the  Strand,'  and  still 
prospering  with  the  credulous.  As  to  '  Lady  Betty 
'  Modely's  skuttle '  (p.  117),  and  'Mobs'  (p.  119), 
Chalmers  has  two  highly  edifying  notes.  He  ex- 
plains the  former  to  be  '  a  pace  of  affected  precipita- 
'  tion,'  and  the  latter  '  a  huddled  oeconomy  of  dress 
'  so  called.'  'Mobs'  were  in  vogue  long  after  the 
date  of  this  paper.  They  are  referred  to  as  late  as 
1775  or  4  in  those  dancing  couplets  which  Goldsmith 
wrote  to  pretty  Mrs.  Bunbury  at  Barton,  and  which 
were  first  given  to  tlie  world  in  the  Hanmer  Corre- 
spondence, p.  582  : — 

'  Both  are  plac'd  at  the  bar,  with  .t11  prorer  decorum, 
'  With  bunches  of  fennell,  and  nosegays  before  'em  ; 
'  Both  cover  their  faces  with  mobs,  and  all  that, 
'  But  the  judge  bids  them,  angrily,  take  off  their  hat. 

The  authorship  of  the  celebrated  epitaph   '  On  the 
'  Countess  Dowager  of  Pembroke'  (p.   120)  still  re- 
mains 


ILLUSTRATIVE  XOTES.  267 

mains  'uncertain.'  In  the  original  issue  of  this 
essay  Addison  assigned  it  to  Ben  Jonson,  in  whose 
works  it  was  included  by  his  first  editor  Whalley, 
whom  GifFord  follows  (Jonson's  H'orks,  1816,  viii., 
p.  537).  In  the  previous  year  (^815)  Sir  Egerton 
Brydges,  when  editing  his  Original  Poems,  never  before 
published,  by.Willinm  Brcivne  (the  author  of  Britannia's 
Pastorals),  had  thought  himself  justified  in  claiming 
it  for  that  author,  because  he  had  found  it,  with 
a  second  stanza,  in  a  collection  of  poems  purporting 
to  be  by  Browne,  which  forms  part  of  the  Lansdowne 
MSS.  (No.  777,  Art.  i.)  Of  this  version  the  follow- 
ing is  a  textual  copy  from  the  MS.  (fol.  43): — 

'  Vnderneath  this  sable  Herse 

'  Lyes  the  subiect  of  all  verse 

'  Sydneyes  sister  Pembrokes  mother 

'  i)eath  ere  thou  hast  slaine  another 

'  ffaire  &  Learn'd  &  good  as  she 

'  Tyme  shall  throw  a  dart  at  thee. 

'  Marble  pyles  let  no  man  raise 
'  To  her  name  for  after  dayes 
'  Some  kind  woman  borne  as  she 
'  Reading  this  like  Niobe 
'  Shall  turne  Marble  &  become 
'  Both  her  Mourner  &  faer  Tombe.' 

Browne  was  on  intimate  terms  with  William,  Earl  of 
Pembroke,  here  referred  to.  But,  oddly  enough,  the 
loregoing  verses  (and  this  assumes  the  existence  of 
another  MS.  copy)  are  to  be  found  among  what  are 
described  as  Pembroke's  own  poems,  printed  with 
Rudyard's  in  1660  by  the  younger  Donne,  and  re- 
printed 


263  ILLUSTRATIVE  NOTES. 

printed  by  Brydges  in  1817.  In  tliis  collection, 
liowever,  they  do  not,  according  to  Brydges,  bear 
Pembroke's  initial ;  and  as  the  volume  also  contains 
several  pieces  which  have  been  traced  to  well-known 
writers  (see  Hannah's  Poems  by  Sir  Henry  Wottoti, 
Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  and  others,  1845,  p.  Ixi.), 
Pembroke's  claim  to  any  hand  in  them,  improbable 
on  other  grounds,  may  fairly  be  dismissed.  The 
choice  therefore  lies  between  Jonson,  to  whom  tra- 
dition assigns  them,  and  Browne,  in  whose  MS. 
poems  they  appear.  From  the  inferior  and  even 
contradictory  character  of  the  second  stanza,  editors 
have  naturally  hesitated  to  give  Jonson  the  credit  of 
it.  But  this  is  to  insist  a  little  too  much  upon 
great  authors  being  always  equal  to  themselves.  If, 
as  we  cannot  but  believe,  he  wrote  the  first  verse, 
it  is  not  impossible  that  he  also  wrote  the  second, 
only  discarding  it  perhaps  when  it  was  too  late  to 
suppress  it  entirely.  At  all  events,  the  '  sable  Herse ' 
of  line  i.  seems  to  anticipate  the  'Marble  pyles '  of 
line  vii.  ;  and  the  fact  that,  in  addition  to  the  two 
cases  mentioned  above,  '  both  parts  are  found  in 
'  many  ancient  copies — e.g.,  in  Bancroft's  Collection, 
'  MS.  Tann.  465,  fol.  62;  and  in  MS.  Ashm.  781, 
'p.  152  '  (Hannah,  lU  supra,  p.  Ixii.),  is  in  favour 
of  their  being  the  work  of  one  and  the  same  writer, 
whether  it  be  Browne  or  Jonson. 


No.  18,  page  121. — Sir  Roger  de  Cot^erley  at 
the  Play.  —  The  Disirest  Mother  (p.  121),  the  new 
play  referred  to,  was  a  dull  and  decorous  version  by 

Ambrose 


ILLUSTRATIVE  NOTES.  269 

Ambrose  Philips  of  Racine's  Andiomaqitc.  Fielding 
burlesqued  it  in  the  Coveiit  Garden  Tragedy,  1732. 
The  part  of  Andromache  \vas  taken  by  Pope's  '  Nar- 
'  cissa,'  Mrs.  Oldfield  ;  and  Addison  and  Budgell  fur- 
nished a  liighly  popular  Epilogue.  Steele,  who  wrote 
the  Prologue,  had  already  praised  the  p.ece  in  an 
earlier  Spectator  (No.  290).  The  Committee;  or,  the 
Faithful  Irishman,  1665  (p.  121),  was  a  play  by  Sir 
Robert  Howard,  Dryden's  brother-in-law.  Captain 
Sentrj'  (p.  122)  was  Sir  Roger's  nephew  and  heir. 
(See  No.  21,  D.aih  of  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley.) 

The  'Mohocks'  or  Mohawks  (p.  122)  of  whom 
mention  was  made  in  the  Fine  Lady's  Journal,  were 
a  club  or  '  nocturnal  fraternity,'  who  perpetrated 
all  kinds  of  brutal  excesses.  There  is  a  letter  giving 
a  particular  account  of  them  in  No.  324  of  the  Spec- 
tator. Swift  also  write?: — 'Did  I  tell  you  of  a  race 
'  of  rakes,  called  the  Mohocks,  that  play  the  devil 
'  about  this  town  every  night,  slit  people's  noses  and 
'beat  them,  etc.?'  Again,  'Our  Mohocks  go  on 
'  still,  and  cut  people's  faces  every  night.  'Faith, 
'  they  shan't  cut  mine  :  I  like  it  better  as  it  is.  The 
'  dogs  will  cost  me  at  least  a  crown  a  week  in  chairs. 
'  I  believe  the  souls  of  your  houghers  of  cattle  have  got 
'  into  them,  and  now  they  don't  distinguish  between 
'  a  cow  and  a  Christian.'  (Journal  to  Stella,  Forster's 
corrected  text,  March  8  and  26,  1712.)  What  would 
Swift  have  said  to  the  '  houghers  of  cattle  '  to-dav  ? 


No.    19,  page   128. — A  Dav's  Ramble  in  London. 
-The    old    'Stocks   Market'    (p.    130),    a  view   of 

which 


270  ILLUSTRATIVE  NOTES. 

which  by  Joseph  Nichols,  shewing  the  statue  of 
Charles  II.  trampling  upon  Oliver  Cromwell,  was 
engraved  in  1738,  stood  on  the  site  of  the  present 
Mansion  House;  and  'Strand  Bridge'  (p.  130)  was 
at  the  foot  of  Strand  Lane,  between  King's  College 
and  Surrey  Street.  There  was  a  '  Dark-house  '  (p. 
130)  in  Billingsgate;  but  it  can  scarcely  be  the  one 
here  referred  to.  'James  Street'  (p.  132)  is  James 
Street,  Covent  Garden. 

The  '  Silkworm  '  of  this    J'cvngc  on  il  vous  plaira 
still  survived  at  the  close  of  the  century  in  Cowper's 

* Miss,  the  mercer's  plagiie,  from  shop  to  shop 

'  Wandering,  .nnd  littering  with  unfolded  silks 
'  The  polished  counter,  and  .ipproving  none, 
'  Or  promising  with  smiles  to  call  again." 

-  (,Task,  Bk.  vi.); 

— nor  is  the  race  even  now  extinct.  Steele's  frank 
admiration  for  female  beauty  is  one  of  the  most 
engaging  features  in  his  p^ers.  A  subsequent  Spec- 
tator (No.  510)  begins  thus: — '  I  was  the  other  Day 
'  driving  in  an  Hack  thro'  Gerard-Street,  when  my 
'  Eye  was  immediately  catch'd  with  the  prettiest 
'  Object  imaginable,  the  Face  of  a  very  fair  Girl, 
'  between  Thirteen  and  Fourteen,  fixed  at  the  Chin 
'  to  a  painted  Sash,  and  made  part  of  the  Lanskip. 
'  It  seem'd  admirably  done,  and  upon  throwing  my- 
'  self  eagerly  out  of  the  Coach  to  look  at  it,  it  laugh'd, 
'  and  flung  from  the  Window.  This  amiable  Figure 
'  dwelt  upon  me,' — and  so  forth.  See  also  the  episode 
of  the  beautiful  Amazon  of  Enfield  Chase  in  Taller, 

No. 


ILLUSTRATIVE  XOTES.  271 

No.   248.      One  wonders  a  little  if  'Dearest  Prue' 
ever  studied  these  particular  essays. 


No.  20,  page  138. — Dick  Estconrt :  In  Meiiio- 
ni7»H.— Estcourt  was  buried  in  the  South  Aisle  of  St. 
Paul's,  Covent  Garden,  on  the  day  this  paper  was 
issued  (August  27th,  1712).*  Another  contemporary 
and  eye-witness  of  his  performances  closely  confirms 
Steele's  words  respecting  his  imitative  powers.  '  This 
'  Man  was  so  amazing  and  extraordinary  a  Mimick, 
'  that  no  Man  or  Woman,  from  the  Coquette  to  the 
'  Privy-Councillor,  ever  mov'd  or  spoke  before  him, 
'  but  he  could  carry  their  Voice,  Look,  Mien,  and 
'  Motion,  instantly  into  another  Company  :  I  have 
'  heard  him  make  long  Harangues,  and  form  various 
'  Arguments,  even  in  the  Manner  of  Thinking,  of  an 
'  eminent  Pleader  at  the  Bar,  with  every  the  least 
'  Article  and  Singularity  of  his  Utterance  so  perfectly 
'  imitated,  that  he  was  the  very  alter  ipse,  scarce  to  be 
'  distinguish'd  from  his  Original.' — (An  Apology  for 
fhe  Life  of  Mr.  Colley  Cibbn;  Comedian,  1740,  p. 
69.)  Yet  Gibber  goes  on  to  say  that  these  qualities 
deserted  him  upon  the  stage ;  and  that  he  was  on  the 
whole  '  a  languid,  unafFecting  Actor.' 

The  Northern  Lasse  (p.  142),  first  acted  in  1632, 
was  by  Richard  Brome ;  the  Tender  Husband,  7705 
(p.  142),  was  Steele's  own.  There  are  other  references 
to  Estcourt  in  Nos.  264,  358  and  3 70  of  the  Spectator. 

*  The  date  of  Estcourt's  burial  has  been  obligingly 
supplied  by  Colonel  Jos.  L.  Chester. 

He 


272  ILLUSTRATIVE  NOTES. 

He  acted  as  Providore  of  the  famous  Bcef-Stcak  Club, 
and  wore  a  golden  gridiron  as  his  badge  of  office. 


No.  21,  page  145. — Death  of  Sir  Rogfr  de 
Cov:rlay. —  'The  reason  \vhii:h  induced  Cervantes  to 
'  bring  his  hero  to  the  grave,  para  nti  sola  nacio  Don 
'  Quixote,  y  yo  para  el,  made  Addison  declare,  with 
'  undue  vehemence  of  expression,  that  he  would  kill 
'  Sir  Roger,  being  of  opinion  that  they  were  born  for 
'  one  another,  and  that  any  other  hand  would  do  him 
'  wrong.'  —  (Johnson's  Lives,  by  Cunningham,  ii., 
134).  Johnson's  statement  is  based  upon  a  passage 
in  Budgell's  Bee,  1753,  No.  i.  There  is  also  a  tradi- 
tion that  Addison  was  displeased  by  certain  liberties 
taken  with  his  favourite  character  in  No.  410  of  the 
Spectator,  supposed  to  be  by  Tickell.  If  this  be  so, 
his  resentment  was  somewhat  tardily  exhibited,  for 
there  is  an  interval  of  four  months  between  the  paper 
referred  to,  and  the  present  essay.  The  true  ground 
for  Sir  Roger's  death  is  probably  to  be  found  in  the 
fact  that  Steele  was  preparing  to  wind  up  vol.  vii. — 
(Sec  Introduction,  p.  xiv.) 


No.  22,  page  151.^ — The  Ton'  Foxhunter.— The 
reader  is  referred  to  Mr.  Caldecott's  humorous  frontis- 
piece. The  huge  overfed  horseman,  with  his  jolting 
seat  and  noisy  laugh,  is  surely  a  creation  worthy  of 
Addison's  text.  Will  not  Mr.  Caldecott  some  day 
gi\  e  us  a  series  of  studies   from  the  Essayists  ?     He 

seems 


ILLUSTRATIVE  NOTES.  27} 

seems  to  seize  the  very  spirit  of  the  age  :  other  men 
draw  its  dress. 

'  Dyer's  Letter'  (p.  154)  was  a  news-letter,  haviri'^ 
a  blank  page  for  correspondence.  In  No.  127  of  the 
Spectator  Sir  Roger  is  represented  as  reading  it  aloud 
each  morning  to  his  guests.  There  was  another 
issued  by  Ichabod  Dawks  (Tatler,  No.  178).  That 
elegant  Latinist,  Mr.  Smith,  of  Phccdra  and  Hippoliliis 
fame  (see  Note  to  No.  28),  put  them  both  into  verse : — ■ 

'  Scribe  secunis,  qu'd  agit  Senatus, 
'  Quid  caput  stertit  grave  Lambe;hanum, 
'  Quid  Comes  Guildford,  quid  habeiu  novorum 
'  Va'ivisque  Djerquc' 


No.  23,  page  160. — ./  Modern  Conversation.— 
Lord  Chesterfield's  sketch  of  his  academic  friend  may 
be  compared  with  Thomas  Warton's  Journal  of  a 
Senior  Felloiu  (also  of  Cambridge)  in  No.  33  of  The 
Idler, — a  paper  that  would  have  found  a  place  in  this 
collection  but  for  its  evident  relationship  to  Addison's 
earlier  Journals  (Nos.  16,  and  17).  Warton  had 
already  satirised  the  easy,  inglorious  life  of  the  aver- 
age College  don  of  the  period  in  his  '  Progress  of  Dis- 
'  content,'  the  first  version  of  which  appeared  in  the 
Student  of  June  30,  1750:  — 

'  Return,  ye  days,  when  endless  pleasure 

'  I  found  in  reading,  or  in  leisure ! 

'  When  calm  around  the  common  room 

'  I  pufF'd  my  daily  pipe's  perfume  ! 

'  Rode  for  a  stomach,  nnd  inspected, 

*  At  annual  bottlings,  corks  selected  : 


20 


'And 


274  ILLUSTRATirii  XOTES. 

'  And  din'd  untax'd,  untrouWrd.  under 
'  Tlie  portrait  of  our  pious  Founder  !  ' 

— {Poetical  H'orks,  ii.,  1802,  p.  197  ) 

'  The  late  Dr.  [George]  Cheyne '  (p.  168)  died  in 
April,  1743.  His  English  Malady  {i.e.,  Hypochon- 
dria), published  in  1733,  is  more  than  once  referred  to 
in  Boswell's /oZ)«io;;,  and  he  \vasthe  friend  of  Richard- 
son. His  last  book  was  dedicated  to  Chesteriield. 
In  Gillray's  well-known  Temperance  enjoying  a  Frugal 
M.al,  1792,  which  represents  King  George  III.  and 
Queen  Charlotte  at  breakfast  on  eggs  and  salad,  '  Dr. 
'  Cheyne  on  the  Benefits  of  a  Spare  Diet '  is  a  pro- 
minent object  in  the  foreground. 


No.  24,  page  169. — A  Modem  Conversation 
{continued). — By  '  Chaos  \vh\t'  (p.  172)  Colonel  Cul- 
verin  is  explained  to  have  meant  '  Cahors.'  The 
'  Bottle  Act '  (p.  174)  referred  to  was,  in  all  proba- 
bility, the  Act  of  1753  for  preventing  wines  from 
being  brought  into  the  port  of  London  without  pay- 
ing the  London  duty.  Next  to  London,  Bristol  was 
the  largest  importer  of  wines,  and  a  centre  of  the 
glass  bottle  trade,  which  may  account  for  its  connec- 
tion with  the  toast  ;  but  the  allusion  is  obscure. 
The  'Jew  Bill'  (p.  174)  was  the  unpopular  measure 
for  naturalising  the  Jews  which  was  passed  and  re- 
pealed in  1753.  Lord  Chesterfield  approved  it,  and 
regarded  its  repeal  as  a  concession  to  the  mob. — 
{Letters,  Nov.  26,  1755.)  There  are  many  satirical 
prints  relating  to  this  subject  in  the  British  Museum  ; 

and 


Il.LUSTRATJVn  XOTFS.  275 

and  in  Hogarth's  F.hrlion  Entertainment,  1755,  .1 
liook- nosed  effigy,  with  a  placard  round  its  neck 
inscribed  '  No  Jews,'  is  conspicuous  among  the 
objects  seen  through  the  open  window. 


No.  25,  page  178. — The  Squire  in  Orders.^- 
To  be  'japanned'  (p.  179)  is  'Eighteenth-Century' 
for  being  ordained.  When  Sir  WilHam  Trelawney 
found  he  could  only  assist  his  protege  and  medical 
adviser,  John  Wolcot  (afterwards  '  Peter  Pindar'),  by 
giving  him  a  living,  he  sent  him  from  Jamaica  to 
England  to  '  get  himself  japanned.'  Wolcot's  brief 
clerical  career  was  of  a  piece  with  this  beginning. 
His  congregation,  chiefly  negroes,  frequently  failed  to 
attend,  and  on  these  occasions,  he  used  to  while  away 
the  service-time  on  the  shore  by  shooting  ring-tailed 
pigeons  with  his  clerk. 

As  a  pendant  to  '  Mr.  Village's  '  picture,  we  subjoin 
Fielding's  portrait  {Cliampion,  February  26,  1740)  of 
another  kind  of  '  country  parson ' — a  portrait  which 
its  author  affirms  to  have  been  taken  from  the  life  :  — 

'  Sometime  since  I  went  with  my  wife  to  pay  a 
'  visit  to  a  country  clergyman,  who  hath  a  living  of 
'  somewhat  above  ^^loo  a  year.  In  his  youth  he  had 
'  sacrificed  a  Fellowship  in  one  of  the  Universities,  to 
'  marry  a  very  agreeable  woman,  who  with  a  small 
'  fortune  had  had  a  very  good  education.  Soon  after 
'  his  marriage  he  was  presented  to  the  living,  of  which 
'  he  is  now  incumbent.  Since  his  coming  hither,  he 
'  hath  improv'd  the  Parsonage-house  and  garden,  both 
'  which  are  now  in  the  neatest  order.     At  our  arri- 

'  val, 


276  ILLUSTRATIVE  NOTES. 

'  v.il,  we  were  met  at  the  gate  by  the  clergyman  and 
'  two  of  his  sons.  After  telling  us  with  the  most 
'  cheerful  voice  and  countenance  that  he  was  extremely 
'  glad  to  see  us,  he  took  my  wife  down  in  his  arms, 
'  and  committing  our  two  horses  to  the  care  of  his 
'  sons,  he  conducted  us  into  a  little  neat  parlour,  where 
'  a  table  was  spread  for  our  entertainment.  Here  the 
'  good  woman  and  her  eldest  daughter  receiv'd  us 
'  with  many  hearty  expressions  of  kindness,  and  very 
'  earnest  desires  that  we  would  take  something  to 
'  refresh  ourselves  before  dinner.  Upon  this  a  bottle 
'  of  Mead  was  produc'd,  which  was  of  their  own 
'  making,  and  very  good  in  its  kind.  Dinner  soon 
'  follow'd,  being  a  gammon  of  bacon  and  some 
'  chickens,  with  a  most  excellent  apple-pye.  My 
'  friend  excused  himself  from  not  treating  me  with  a 
'  roasted  pig  (a  dish  I  am  particularly  fond  of)  by 
'  telling  us  that  as  times  were  hard,  he  had  relin- 
'  quish'd  those  Tithes  to  his  parishioners.  Our 
'  liquors  were  the  aforesaid  mead,  elder  wine,  with 
'  strong  beer,  ale,  &c.,  all  perfectly  good,  and  which 
'  our  friends  exprest  great  pleasure  at  our  drinking 
'  and  liking.  After  a  meal  spent  with  the  utmost 
'  cheerfulness,  we  walked  into  a- little,  neat  garden, 
'  where  we  passed  the  afternoon  with  the  gayest  and 
'  most  innocent  mirth,  the  good  man  and  good 
*  woman,  their  sons  and  daughters,  all  vying  with 
'  one  another,  who  should  shew  us  the  greatest  signs 
'  of  respect,  and  of  their  forwardness  to  help  us  to 
'  anything  they  had. 

'  The  economy  of  these  good  people  may  be  instruc- 
'  tive  to  some,  as  well  as  entertaining  to  all  my  readers. 

'The 


ILLUSTRATIVE  NOTES.  277 

'  The  clergyman,  who  is  an  excellent  scholar,  is 
'  himself  the  school-master  to  his  boys  (which  arc 
'  three  in  number).  As  soon  as  the  hours,  appointed 
'  for  their  studies,  are  over,  the  master  and  all  the 
'  scholars  employ  themselves  at  work  either  in  the 
'  garden,  or  some  other  labour  about  the  house,  while 
'  the  little  woman  is  no  less  industrious  in  her  sphere 
'  with  her  two  daughters  within.  Thus  the  furniture 
'  of  their  house,  their  garden,  their  table,  and  their 
'  cellar,  are  almost  all  the  work  of  their  own  hands  ; 
'  and  the  sons  grow  at  once  robust  and  learned,  while 
'  the  daughters  become  housewives,  at  the  same  time 
'  that  they  learn  of  their  mother  several  of  the  gen- 
'  teeler  accomplishments. 

'  Love  and  friendship  were  never  in  greater  purity 
'  than  between  this  good  couple,  and  as  they  both 
'  have  the  utmost  tenderness  for  their  children,  so 
'  they  meet  with  the  greatest  returns  of  gratitude  and 
'  respect  from  them.  Nay  the  whole  parish  is  by 
'  their  example  the  family  of  love,  of  which  they 
'  daily  receive  instances  from  their  spiritual  guide, 
'  and  which  hath  such  an  effect  on  them,  that  I 
'  believe — commiinihiis  aiitiis — he  receives  voluntarily 
'  from  his  parishioners  more  than  his  due,  though  not 
'  half  so  much  as  he  deserves.' — (Edn.  1741,  i.  310.) 

It  will  be  noted  that,  so  far  from  being 

'  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year,' 

one  of  these  clergymen  has  ^300,  and  the  other  has 
;^ioo  per  annum. 


No. 


278  ILLUSTRATIVE  NOTES. 

No.  26,  page  186, — Country  Congregations. — 
This  paper  of  Cowper's  is  a  little  in  the  vein  of  Wash- 
ington Irving's  charming  studies  in  the  Sketch-Book. 
The  '  Negligee,'  the  '  Slammerkin,'  and  the  '  Trol- 
'  lope,'  or  '  Trollopee '  (p.  192),  as  may  be  guessed 
from  the  names,  were  loose  gowns  worn  by  ladies 
towards  the  middle  of  the  Century.  '  Mrs.  Round- 
'  about,'  in  Goldsmith's  Bee  (No.  ii.,  Oct.  15,  1759), 
wears  a  'lutestring  trollopee'  with  a  two  yard  train. 
The  '  Joan  '  (p.  192)  was  a  close  cap— the  reverse  of  a 
mob. 

The  '  two  figures  at  St.  Dunstan's'  {i.e.,  St.  Dun- 
stan's,  Fleet  Street)  referred  to  at  p.  188,  are  described 
as  '  2  Figures  of  Savages  or  wild  Men,  well  carved  in 
'  Wood,  and  painted  natural  Colour,  appearing  as  big 
'  as  the  Life,  standing  erect,  each  with  a  knotty  Clu  ■> 
'  in  his  Hand,  whereby  they  alternately  strike  the 
'  Quarters,  not  only  their  Arms,  but  even  their  Heads 
'  moving  at  every  Blow.'  The  writer  of  the  above, 
parish-clerk  in  1752,  goes  on  to  say  '  they  are  more 
'  admired  by  many  of  the  Populace  on  Sundays,  than 
'  the  most  elegant  Preacher  from  the  Pulpit  within.' 
Cowper  refers  to  them  again  in  his  Table-Talk,  1782. 


No,  27,  page  194. — Dick  Minim  the  Critic. — 
Phadra  and  Hippolitiis  (p.  198),  an  adaptation  by  Ed- 
mund Smith  of  Racine's  Phedre,  was  produced  at  the 
Haymarket,  21st  April  1707,  and  acted  four  times. 
Addison  wrote  the  Prologue;  Prior  the  Epilogue. 
The  former  {Spectator,  No.  18)  calls  it  '  an  admirable 
'  tragedy ;  '  but  it  pleased  the  critics  better  than  the 

pit. 


ILLUSTRATIVE  NOTES. 


279 


pit.  It  was  revived  at  Covcnt  Garden  in  November 
1754,  which  is  perhaps  an  additional  reason  why 
Johnson  remembered  it  here.  Barharossa  (p.  199), 
produced  at  Drury  Lane  in  the  same  year,  was  a 
tragedy  by  the  Rev.  Dr.  Browne.  In  this  play  the 
bells  for  the  midnight  and  the  second  watch  are  used 
as  signals  by  the  assassins  of  the  chief  character. 
Cli'oiic  (p.  199),  also  a  tragedy,  was  by  Robert  Dodsley 
the  bookseller,  who  published  London  and  the  Vanity 
of  Human  IFishcs.  It  first  came  out  at  Covent  Garden 
on  December  2nd,  1758.  Johnson  regarded  it  as  su- 
perior to  Otway,  and  thus  speaks  of  it  in  a  letter  to 
Bennet  Langton,  dated  January  9th,  1759  : — '  Cleone 
'  was  well  acted  by  all  the  characters,  but  Bellamy  [i.e., 
'  the  blue-eyed  and  beautiful  George  Ann  Bellamy, 
'  who,  as  the  heroine,  made  the  fortune  of  the  piece] 
'  left  nothing  to  be  desired.  I  went  the  first  night, 
'  and  supported  it  as  well  as  I  might ;  for  Doddy,  you 
'  know,  is  my  patron,  and  I  would  not  desert  him. 
'  The  play  was  very  well  received.  Doddy,  after  the 
'  danger  was  over,  went  every  night  to  the  stage-side, 
'  and  cried  at  the  distress  of  poor  Cleone.' — (^Bosicell'i 
Life,  by  Croker,  Chap.  XIII.) 

Dick  Minim  would  have  rejoiced  over  the  opening 
verse  of  Enoch  Arden — 

'  Long  lines  o!  cWS  breaking  have  left  a  chasm." 


No.  28,  page  202. — Dick  Minim  tin-  Clitic 
(continued). — In  a  forcible  passage  respecting  transla- 
tions,  which  is  to  be  found  in  the  '  Preface '  to  the 

Dictionary, 


28o  ILLVSTRATIVE  NOTES. 

Dictionary,  Johnson  had  already  declared  his  aversion 
to  tribunals  of  taste  (p.  205)  : — '  If  an  academy  should 
'  be  established  for  the  cultivation  of  our  style,  which 
'  I,  who  can  never  wish  to  see  dependance  multiplied, 
'  hope  the  spirit  of  Englislj  liberty  will  hinder  or 
'  destroy,  let  them,  instead  of  compiling  grammars 
'  and  dictionaries,  endeavour,  with  all  their  influence, 
'  to  stop  the  licence  of  translators,  whose  idleness  and 
'  ignorance,  if  it  be  suffered  to  proceed,  will  reduce  us  to 
'  babble  a  dialect  of  France.'  The  writer  who,  as  Gar- 
rick  expressed  it  with  more  patriotism  than  elegance, 

' arm'd  lil<e  a  hero  of  yore, 

'  Had  beat  forty  French,  and  would  beat  forty  more,' 

might  perhaps  be  pardoned  for  a  little  self-satisfaction, 
M.  Littre  not  having  yet  arisen  as  a  formidable  rival. 
But  those  who  care  to  ascertain  what  the  foremost 
English  critic  of  our  day  has  to  say  upon  the  same 
theme  should  turn  to  Mr.  Matthew  Arnold's  paper  on 
T!u  Literary  Influence  of  Academies. — {Cornhill  Maga- 
zine, X.,  pp.  154-172.) 

In  Oldisworth's  panegyric  on  Edmund  Smith  (see 
Note  to  No.  27)  quoted  by  Johnson  in  his  life  of  that 
author,  there  is  a  passage  of  which  he  may  have 
been  thinking  when  he  wrote  Minim's  advice  to 
aspiring  youth  (p.  206)  : — '  When  he  was  writing 
'  upon  a  subject,  he  w-ould  seriously  consider  what 
'  Demosthenes,  Homer,  Virgil,  or  Horace,  if  alive, 
'  would  say  upon  that  occasion,  which  whetted  him 
'  to  exceed  himself  as  well  as  others.' — {Lives  of  the 
Poets,  Cunningham's  edn.,  ii.,  46.) 

No. 


ILLUSTRATIVE  XOTES.  281 

No.  29,  page  2og.—Jit-Coniiois<:curs. — This 
Essay,  and  those  on  the  Grand  Style  of  Painting, 
and  the  True  Idea  of  Beauty  (Idlers,  Nos.  79  and 
82),  were  said  by  Northcote  to  be  '  a  kind  of  syllabus ' 
of  Sir  Joshua's  famous  Discourses.  The  references  in 
this  paper  to  '  the  flowing  line,  which  constitutes 
'  grace  and  beauty,'  and  the  '  pyramidal  principle  ' 
(p.  211),  would  seem  to  be  sidelong  strokes  at  Ho- 
garth's Anah'sis,  1755,  which  had  its  origin  in  the 
precept  attributed  to  Michael  Angelo  that  a  figure 
should  be  ahvavs  '  Pyramidall,  Serpentlike,  and  multi- 
'  plied  by  one  two  and  three.' — (Preface,  p.  v.) 


No.  30,  page  214.  —  Tb.-  Man  in  Black.— The 
paper  which  immediately  follows  this  one  in  the 
Citiien  of  the  IForld,  while  professing  to  give  the 
personal  history  of  the  '  Man  in  Black,'  contains 
several  particulars  which  belong  to  Goldsmith's  own 
biography.  '  Who  can  possibly  doubt,'  says  Mr.  For- 
ster,  '  the  original  from  whom  the  man  in  black's  expe- 
'  riences  were  taken?'  {Citi:^cn  of  the  World,  xxvii.) 
'  The  first  opportunity  he  [my  father]  had  of  finding 

*  his  expectations  disappointed,  was  in  the  middling 
'  figure  I  made  at  the  university  :  he  had  flattered 
'  himself  that  he  should  soon  see  me  rising  into  the 
'  foremost  rank  in  literary  reputation,  but  was  morti- 
'  fied  to  find  me  utterlv  unnoticed  and  unknown. 
'  His  disappointment  might  have  been  partly  ascribed 
'  to  his  having  over-rated  my  talents,  and  partly  to 

*  my  dislike  of  mathematical  reasonings  at  a  time  when 
'  my  imagination  and  memory,  yet  unsatisfied,  were 

'  more 


282  ILLUSTRATIVE  NOTES. 

'  more  eager  after  new  objects  tbaii  desirous  of  reason- 
'  ing  upon  those  I  knew.  This,  however,  did  not 
'  please  my  tutor,  who  observed  indeed  that  I  was  a 
'  little  dull  ;  but  at  the  same  time  allowed  that  I 
'  seemed  to  be  very  good-natured,  and  had  no  harm 
'  in  me.' — {Life,  Bk.  I.,  Chap,  ii.) 


No.  31,  page  220. — Bciui  Tibhs. — This  paper 
and  the  next,  although  included  in  the  Citizen  of 
the  World,  are  here  printed  as  revised  in  the  Essays 
by  Mr.  Goldsmith,  published  by  W.  Griffin  in  1765. 
'  It  is  supposed  that  this  exquisite  sketch  had  a  living 
'  original  in  one  of  Goldsmith's  casual  acquaintance  ; 
'  a  person  named  Thornton,  once  in  the  army.' — 
(Forster's  Life,  Bk.  III.,  Chap,  iv.) 


No.  32,  page  226. — Beau  Tibhs  (continued.) — As 
indicative  of  Goldsmith's  fondness  for  the  Christian 
names  of  little  Miss  Tibbs,  Cunningham  points  out 
that  he  transfers  them  to  a  character  of  later  date  : — 
'  Lady  Blarney  was  particularly  attached  to  Olivia  ; 
'  Miss  Carolina  Wilhelmina  Amelia  Skeggs  (7  love 
'  to  give  the  whole  name)  took  a  greater  fancy  to  her 
'  sister.'— (F/Vrtc  of  Wakefield,  Chap,  xi.)  The  italics 
are  ours. 


No.  33,  page  233. — Bcaii  Tibbs  at  Vauxhall. — 
Vauxhall,  much  fallen  and  degraded,  saw  its  '  posi- 
'  tively   last'    day    in     1859.     The    fifteen    hundred 

lamps, 


ILLUSTRATIVE  XOTES.  285 

lamps,  the  waterworks,  and  the  French  horns  so 
dear  to  Mrs.  Tibbs's  Countess,  had  then  long  been 
things  of  the  past  ;  and  those  who  wish  to  realise 
the  splendours  of  the  Rotunda,  the  '  magnificent 
'  orchestra  of  Gothic  construction,'  the  mechanical 
landscape,  the  Grove,  and  the  '  Lover's  Walk,'  must 
reconstruct  them  from  the  pages  of  Walpole  and  Miss 
Burney,  or  the  designs  of  Wale  and  Canaletti.  It  is 
possible  that  those  decorations  of  the  pavilions  which 
the  much-suffering  pawnbroker's  widow  admired  were 
the  very  paintings  which  Hogarth  and  Hayman  had 
executed  for  Jonathan  Tyers  as  far  back  as  1752. 
They  existed  for  many  years  subsequent  to  the  date 
when  Goldsmith  wrote,  being  sold  with  other  pro- 
perty in  1841.  At  that  time  they  were  said  to  be 
greatly  '  obscured  by  dirt.'  When  it  is  added  that 
they  had  long  been  exposed  to  the  air,  varnished 
every  year,  and  freely  assaulted  by  sandwich  knives, 
it  will  be  seen  that  their  condition  was  indeed  deplor- 
able. But  the  little  Beau  would  not  have  approved 
them  at  any  stage ;  he  would  have  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  rapped  his  box,  and  talked  of  the  grand 
contorno  of  Alesso  Baldovinetto. 

Neither  this  admirable  study  in  genre  nor  the  Man 
in  Black  are  included  in  Goldsmith's  selected  Essays 
of  1765.  It  is  difficult  to  account  for  their  absence 
except  by  that  strange  paternal  blindness  which  also 
led  Prior  to  omit  from  his  collected  poems  the  '  Secre- 
'  tary '  and  the  lines  to  a  '  Child  of  Quality,'  two  of 
the  pieces  by  which  he  is  perhaps  best  known  to  readers 
of  to-dav. 


No. 


284  ILLUSTRATIVE  XOTES. 

No.  34,  page  241. — A  Country  Dcnuagcr. — This 
paper  is  printed  from  the  edition  of  Mackenzie's  works 
published  at  Edinburgh  in  1808,  and  revised  by  the 
author. 


3  1205  03058  5 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A  A         001  403  044 


